MONTES    THE    MATADOR 
AND     OTHER     STORIES 


B  Y    FRANK    HARRIS 
THE    MAN   SHAKESPEARE 

THE    BOMB 
ELDER    CONKLIN 
MONTES   THE    MATADOR 

MR.    AND    MRS.    DAVENTRY 
SHAKESPEARE   AND    HIS    LOVE 


MONTES 
THE  MATADOR 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

FRANK  HARRIS 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 

MCMX 


Copyright  igiO  by 
Mitchell  Kennerley 


CONTENTS 

Monies   The  Matador:  P,  3  ^^ 

First  Love:  A  Confession:  P.  61 

Profit  and  Loss:   P.  87 

The  Interpreter:   A  Mere  Episode:   P,  163 

Sonia:   P.  175 


28i4G9 


MONTES,    THE    MATADOR 


MONTES,    THE    MATADOR 

YES !  I'm  better,  and  the  doctor  tells  me  I've 
escaped  once  more — as  if  I  cared!  .  .  . 
And  all  through  the  fever  you  came  every 
day  to  see  me,  so  my  niece  says,  and  brought  me 
the  cool  drink  that  drove  the  heat  away  and  gave 
me  sleep.  You  thought,  I  suppose,  like  the 
doctor,  that  I'd  escape  you,  too.  Ha!  ha!  And 
that  you'd  never  hear  old  Montes  tell  what  he 
knows  of  bull-fighting  and  you  don't.  ...  Or 
perhaps  it  was  kindness;  though,  why  you,  a  for- 
eigner and  a  heretic,  should  be  kind  to  me,  God 
knows.  .  .  .  The  doctor  says  I've  not  got  much 
more  life  in  me,  and  you're  going  to  leave 
Spain  within  the  week — within  the  week,  you  said, 
didn't  you.?  .  .  .  Well,  then,  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you  the  story. 

"  Thirty  years  ago  I  wanted  to  tell  it  often 
enough,  but  I  knew  no  one  I  could  trust.  After 
that  fit  passed,  I  said  to  myself  I'd  never  tell  it; 
but  as  you're  going  away,  I'll  tell  it  to  you,  if 
you  swear  by  the  Virgin  you'll  never  t^  it  to  any 
one,  at  least  until  I'm  dead.  You'll^wear,  will 
you.?  easily  enough!  they  all  will;  but  as  you're 
going  away,  it's  much  the  same.  Besides,  you 
can  do  nothing  now ;  no  one  can  do  anything ;  they 
never  could  have  done  anything.  Why,  they 
wouldn't  believe  you  if  you  told  it  to  them,  the 
fools!  .  .  .  My  story  will  teach  you  more  about 

3 


Monies,  the  Matador 

bull-fighting  than  Frascuelo  or  Mazzantinl,  or — 
yes,  Lagartijo  knows.  Weren't  there  Frascuelos 
and  Mazzantinis  in  my  day?  Dozens  of  them. 
You  could  pick  one  Frascuelo  out  of  every  thou- 
sand labourers  if  3^ou  gave  him  the  training  and 
the  practice,  and  could  keep  him  awaj^  from  wine 
and  women.  But  a  Montes  is  not  to  be  found 
every  day,  if  you  searched  all  Spain  for  one. 
.  .  .  What's  the  good  of  bragging.^  I  never 
bragged  when  I  was  at  work:  the  deed  talks — 
louder  than  any  words.  Yet  I  think,  no  one  has 
ever  done  the  things  I  used  to  do;  for  I  read  in 
a  paper  once  an  account  of  a  thing  I  often  did, 
and  the  writer  said  'twas  incredible.  Ha,  ha!  in- 
credible to  the  Frascuelos  and  Mazzantinis  and  the 
rest,  who  can  kill  bulls  and  are  called  espadas. 
Oh,  yes!  bulls  so  tired  out  they  can't  lift  their 
heads.  You  didn't  guess  when  you  were  telling 
me  about  Frascuelo  and  Mazzantini  that  I  knew 
them.  I  knew  all  about  both  of  them  before  you 
told  me.  I  know  their  work,  though  I've  not 
been  within  sight  of  a  ring  for  more  than  thirty 
years.  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  tell  you  my  story:  I'll 
tell  you  my  story — if  I  can." 

The  old  man  said  the  last  words  as  if  to  himself 
in  a  low  voice,  then  sank  back  in  the  armchair, 
and  for  a  time  was  silent. 

Let  me  say  a  word  or  two  about  myself  and  the 
circumstances  which  led  me  to  seek  out  Montes. 

I  had  been  in  Spain  off  and  on  a  good  deal,  and 
from  the  first  had  taken  a  great  liking  to  the  peo- 
ple and  country;  and  no  one  can  love  Spain  and 
the  Spaniards  without  becoming  interested  in  the 

4 


Frank  Harris 

bull-ring — the  sport  is  so  characteristic  of  the 
people,  and  in  itself  so  enthralling.  I  set  myself 
to  study  it  in  earnest,  and  when  I  came  to  know 
the  best  bull-fighters,  Frascuelo,  Mazzantini,  and 
Lagartijo,  and  heard  them  talk  of  their  trade,  I 
began  to  understand  what  skill  and  courage,  what 
qualities  of  eye  and  hand  and  heart,  this  game 
demands.  Through  my  love  of  the  sport,  I  came 
to  hear  of  Montes.  He  had  left  so  great  a  name 
that  thirty  years  after  he  had  disappeared  from 
the  scene  of  his  triumphs,  he  was  still  spoken  of 
not  infrequently.  He  would  perhaps  have  been 
better  remembered,  had  the  feats  attributed  to  him 
been  less  astounding.  It  was  Frascuelo  who  told 
me  that  Montes  was  still  alive: 

"  Montes,"  he  cried  out  in  answer  to  me ;  "  I 
can  tell  you  about  Montes.  You  mean  the  old 
espada  who,  they  say,  used  to  kill  the  bull  in  its 
first  rush  into  the  ring — as  if  any  one  could  do 
that!  I  can  tell  you  about  him.  He  must  have 
been  clever;  for  an  old  aficionado  I  know,  swears 
no  one  of  us  is  fit  to  be  in  his  cuadrilla.  Those 
old  fellows  are  all  like  that,  and  I  don't  believe 
half  they  tell  about  Montes.  I  dare  say  he  was 
good  enough  in  his  day,  but  there  are  just  as  good 
men  now  as  ever  there  were.  When  I  was  in 
Ronda,  four  years  ago,  I  went  to  see  Montes.  He 
lives  out  of  the  town  in  a  nice,  little  house  all  alone, 
with  one  woman  to  attend  to  him,  a  niece  of  his, 
they  say.  You  know  he  was  born  in  Ronda;  but 
he  would  not  talk  to  me ;  he  only  looked  at  me  and 
laughed — the  little,  lame,  conceited  one !  " 

"You  don't  believe  then,  in  spite  of  what  they 
5 


Monies,  the  Matador 

say,  that  he  was  better  than  Lagartijo  or  Mazzan- 
tini,"  I  asked. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  Frascuelo  replied.  "  Of  course, 
he  may  have  known  more  than  they  do;  that 
wouldn't  be  difficult,  for  neither  of  them  knows 
much.  Mazzantini  is  a  good  matador  because  he's 
very  tall  and  strong — that's  his  advantage.  For 
that,  too,  the  women  like  him,  and  when  he  makes 
a  mistake  and  has  to  try  again,  he  gets  forgiven. 
It  wasn't  so  when  I  began.  There  were  aficionados 
then,  and  if  you  made  a  mistake  they  began  to 
jeer,  and  you  were  soon  pelted  out  of  the  ring. 
Now  the  crowd  knows  nothing  and  is  no  longer 
content  to  follow  those  who  do  know.  Lagartijo.'^ 
Oh!  he's  very  quick  and  daring,  and  the  women 
and  boys  like  that,  too.  But  he's  ignorant:  he 
knows  nothing  about  a  bull.  Why,  he's  been 
wounded  oftener  in  his  five  years  than  I  in  my 
twenty.  And  that's  a  pretty  good  test.  Montes 
must  have  been  clever;  for  he's  very  small  and  I 
shouldn't  think  he  was  ever  very  strong,  and  then 
he  was  lame  almost  from  the  beginning,  I've  heard. 
I've  no  doubt  he  could  teach  the  business  to  Maz- 
zantini or  Lagartijo,  but  that's  not  saying  much. 
.  .  .  He  must  have  made  a  lot  of  money,  too,  to 
be  able  to  live  on  it  ever  since.  And  they  didn't 
pay  as  high  then  or  even  when  I  began  as  they  do 
now." 

So  much  I  knew  about  Montes  when,  in  the 
spring  of  188 — ,  I  rode  from  Seville  to  Ronda,  fell 
in  love  with  the  place  at  first  sight,  and  resolved 
to  stop  at  Polos'  inn  for  some  time.  Ronda  is 
built,  so  to  speak,  upon  an  island  tableland  high 

6 


Frank  Harris 

above  the  sea-level,  and  is  ringed  about  by  still 
higher  mountain  ranges.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
peculiar  and  picturesque  places  in  the  world.  A 
river  runs  almost  all  round  it;  and  the  sheer  cliffs 
fall  in  many  places  three  or  four  hundred  feet, 
from  the  tableland  to  the  water,  like  a  wall.  No 
wonder  that  the  Moors  held  Ronda  after  they  had 
lost  every  other  foot  of  ground  in  Spain.  Tak- 
ing Ronda  as  my  headquarters  I  made  almost  daily 
excursions,  chiefly  on  foot,  into  the  surrounding 
mountains.  On  one  of  these  I  heard  again  of 
Montes.  A  peasant  with  whom  I  had  been  talking 
and  who  was  showing  me  a  short  cut  back  to  the 
town,  suddenly  stopped  and  said,  pointing  to  a 
little  hut  perched  on  the  mountain-shoulder  in  front 
of  us,  "  From  that  house  you  can  see  Ronda. 
That's  the  house  where  Montes,  the  great  matador, 
was  born,"  he  added,  evidently  with  some  pride. 
Then  and  there  the  conversation  with  Frascuelo 
came  back  to  my  memory,  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  find  Montes  out  and  have  a  talk  with  him.  I 
went  to  his  house,  which  lay  just  outside  the  town, 
next  day  with  the  alcalde,  who  introduced  me  to 
him  and  then  left  us.  The  first  sight  of  the  man 
interested  me.  He  was  short — about  five  feet 
three  or  four,  I  should  think — of  well-knit,  mus- 
cular frame.  He  seemed  to  me  to  have  Moorish 
blood  in  him.  His  complexion  was  very  dark  and 
tanned ;  the  features  clean-cut ;  the  nose  sharp  and 
inquisitive;  the  nostrils  astonishingly  mobile;  the 
chin  and  jaws  square,  boney — resolute.  His  hair 
and  thick  moustache  were  snowwhite,  and  this,  to- 
gether with  the  deep  wrinkles  on  the  forehead  and 

7 


Montes,  the  Matador 

round  the  eyes  and  mouth,  gave  him  an  appearance 
of  great  age.     He  seemed  to  move,  too,  with  ex- 
treme difficulty,  his  lameness,  as  he  afterwards  told 
me,    being    complicated    with    rheumatism.     But 
when  one  looked  at  his  eyes,  the  appearance  of  age 
vanished.     They  were  large  and  brown,  usually 
inexpressive,  or  rather  impenetrable,  brooding  wells 
of  unknown  depths.     But  when  anything  excited 
him,  the  eyes  would  suddenly  flash  to  life  and  be- 
come intensely  luminous.     The  effect  was  starthng. 
It  seemed  as  if  all  the  vast  vitality  of  the  man  had 
been  transmuted   into   those   wonderful   gleaming 
orbs:    they    radiated    courage,    energy,    intellect. 
Then  as  his  mood  changed,  the  light  would  die 
out  of  the  eyes,  and  the  old,  wizened,  wrinkled  face 
would  settle  down  into  its  ordinary,  ill-tempered, 
wearied  expression.     There  was  evidently  so  much 
in    the    man — courage,    melancholy,    keen    intelli- 
gence— that  in  spite  of  an  anything  but  flatter- 
ing reception  I  returned  again  and  again  to  the 
house.     One  day  his  niece  told  me  that  Montes 
was  in  bed,  and  from  her  description  I  inferred  that 
he  was  suffering  from  an  attack  of  malarial  fever. 
The  doctor  who  attended  him,  and  whom  I  knew, 
confirmed  this.     Naturally  enough  I  did  what  I 
could  for  the  sufferer,  and  so  it  came  about  that 
after  his  recovery  he  received  me  with  kindness, 
and  at  last  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  me  the  story 
of  his  life. 

"  I  may  as  well  begin  at  the  beginning,"  Montes 
went  on.  "I  was  born  near  here  about  sixty  years 
ago.  You  thought  I  was  older.  Don't  deny  it. 
I  saw  the  surprise  in  your  face.     But  it's  true: 

8 


Frank  Hams 

in  fact,  I  am  not  yet,  I  think,  quite  sixty.  My 
father  was  a  peasant  with  a  few  acres  of  land  of 
his  own  and  a  cottage." 

"  I   know   it,"   I   said.      "  I    saw   it   the   other 
day." 

"  Then  you  may  have  seen  on  the  further  side  of 
the  hill  the  pasture-ground  for  cattle  which  was 
my  father's  chief  possession.  It  was  good  pas- 
ture ;  very  good.  .  .  .  My  mother  was  of  a  better 
class  than  my  father ;  she  was  the  daughter  of  the 
chemist  in  Ronda ;  she  could  read  and  write,  and 
she  did  read,  I  remember,  whenever  she  could  get 
the  chance,  which  wasn't  often,  with  her  four  chil- 
dren to  take  care  of — three  girls  and  a  boy — and 
the  house  to  look  after.  We  all  loved  her,  she  was 
so  gentle;  besides,  she  told  us  wonderful  stories; 
but  I  think  I  was  her  favourite.  You  see  I  was 
the  youngest  and  a  boy,  and  women  are  like  that. 
My  father  was  hard — at  least,  I  thought  him  so, 
and  feared  rather  than  loved  him;  but  the  girls 
got  on  better  with  him.  He  never  talked  to  me 
as  he  did  to  them.  My  mother  wanted  me  to  go 
to  school  and  become  a  priest;  she  had  taught 
me  to  read  and  write  by  the  time  I  was  six.  But 
my  father  would  not  hear  of  it.  '  If  you  had  had 
three  boys  and  one  girl,'  I  remember  him  saying 
to  her  once,  '  you  could  have  done  what  you  likrd 
with  this  one.  But  as  there  is  only  one  boy,  lie 
must  work  and  help  me.'  So  by  the  time  I  was 
nine  I  used  to  go  oif  down  to  the  pasture  and 
watch  the  bulls  all  day  long.  For  though  the  herd 
was  a  small  one — only  about  twenty  head — it  re- 
quired to  be  constantl}^  watched.     The  cows  were 

9 


Monies,  the  Matador 

attended  to  in  an  enclosure  close  to  the  house.  It 
was  my  task  to  mind  the  bulls  in  the  lower  pas- 
ture. Of  course  I  had  a  pony,  for  such  bulls  in 
Spain  are  seldom  approached,  and  cannot  be 
driven  by  a  man  on  foot.  I  see  you  don't  under- 
stand. But  it's  simple  enough.  My  father's  bulls 
were  of  good  stock,  savage  and  strong;  they  were 
always  taken  for  the  ring,  and  he  got  high  prices 
for  them.  He  generally  managed  to  sell  three 
nomllos  and  two  bulls  of  four  years  old  each  year. 
And  there  was  no  bargaining,  no  trouble;  the 
money  was  always  ready  for  that  class  of  animal. 
All  day  long  I  sat  on  my  pony,  or  stood  near  it, 
minding  the  bulls.  If  any  of  them  strayed  too 
far,  I  had  to  go  and  get  him  back  again.  But  in 
the  heat  of  the  day  they  never  moved  about  much, 
and  that  time  I  turned  to  use  by  learning  the 
lessons  my  mother  gave  me.  So  a  couple  of  years 
passed.  Of  course  In  that  time  I  got  to  know 
our  bulls  pretty  well;  but  it  was  a  remark  of  my 
father  which  first  taught  me  that  each  bull  had  an 
individual  character  and  first  set  me  to  watch  them 
closely.  I  must  have  been  then  about  twelve  years 
old ;  and  in  that  summer  I  learned  more  than  in  the 
two  previous  years.  My  father,  though  he  said 
nothing  to  me,  must  have  noticed  that  I  had  gained 
confidence  in  dealing  with  the  bulls ;  for  one  night, 
when  I  was  in  bed,  I  heard  him  say  to  my  mother 
— *  The  little  fellow  is  as  good  as  a  man  now.'  I 
was  proud  of  his  praise,  and  from  that  time  on,  I 
set  to  work  to  learn  everything  I  could  about  the 
buUs. 

"  By  degrees  I  came  to  know  every  one  of  them 
10 


Frank  Harris 

— better  far  than  I  ever  got  to  know  men  or 
women  later.  Bulls,  I  found,  were  just  like  men, 
only  simpler  and  kinder ;  some  were  good-tempered 
and  honest,  others  were  sulky  and  cunning.  There 
was  a  black  one  which  was  wild  and  hot-tempered, 
but  at  bottom  good,  while  there  was  one  almost 
as  black,  with  light  horns  and  flanks,  which  I  never 
trusted.  The  other  bulls  didn't  like  him.  I  could 
see  they  didn't;  they  were  all  afraid  of  him.  He 
was  cunning  and  suspicious,  and  never  made  friends 
with  any  of  them ;  he  would  always  eat  by  himself 
far  away  from  the  others — but  he  had  courage, 
too ;  I  knew  that  as  well  as  they  did.  He  was  sold 
that  very  summer  with  the  black  one  for  the  ring 
in  Ronda.  One  Sunday  night,  y>'hen  my  father 
and  eldest  sister  (my  mother  would  never  go  to  los 
toros)  came  back  from  seeing  the  game  in  Ronda, 
they  were  wild  with  excitement,  and  began  to  tell 
the  mother  how  one  of  our  bulls  had  caught  the 
matador  and  tossed  him,  and  how  the  chulos  could 
scarcely  get  the  matador  away.  Then  I  cried  out 
— *  I  know ;  'twas  Judas  '  ( so  I  had  christened 
him),  and  as  I  saw  my  father's  look  of  surprise 
I  went  on  confusedly,  '  the  bull  with  the  white 
horns  I  mean.  Juan,  the  black  one,  wouldn't  have 
been  clever  enough.'  My  father  only  said,  '  The 
boy's  right ' ;  but  my  mother  drew  me  to  her  and 
kissed  me,  as  if  she  were  afraid.  .  .  .  Poor  mother ! 
I  think  even  then  she  knew  or  divined  something 
of  what  came  to  pass  later.  .  .  . 

"  It  was  the  next  summer,  I  think,  that  my 
father  first  found  out  how  much  I  knew  about  the 
bulls.     It  happened  in  this  way.     There  hadn't 

11 


Monies,  the  Matador 

been  mucK  rain  in  the  spring,  the  pasture,  there- 
fore, was  thin,  and  that,  of  course,  made  the  bulls 
restless.  In  the  summer  the  weather  was  unsettled 
— spells  of  heat  and  then  thunderstorms — till  the 
animals  became  very  excitable.  One  day,  there 
was  thunder  in  the  air  I  remember,  they  gave  me 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  that  annoyed  me,  for 
I  wanted  to  read.  I  had  got  to  a  very  interesting 
tale  in  the  story-book  my  mother  had  given  me  on 
the  day  our  bulls  were  sold.  The  story  was  about 
Cervantes — ah,  you  know  who  I  mean,  the  great 
writer.  Well,  he  was  a  great  man,  too.  The 
stor}^  told  how  he  escaped  from  the  prison  over 
there  in  Algiers  and  got  back  to  Cadiz,  and  how 
a  widow  came  to  him  to  find  out  if  he  knew  her 
son,  who  was  also  a  slave  of  the  Moors.  And  when 
she  heard  that  Cervantes  had  seen  her  son  working 
in  chains,  she  bemoaned  her  wretchedness  and  ill- 
fortune,  till  the  heart  of  the  great  man  melted 
with  pity,  and  he  said  to  her,  '  Come,  mother,  be 
hopeful,  in  one  month  your  son  shall  be  here  with 
you.'  And  then  the  book  told  how  Cervantes  went 
back  to  slavery,  and  how  glad  the  Bey  was  to  get 
him  again,  for  he  was  very  clever;  and  how  he 
asked  the  Bey,  as  he  had  returned  of  his  free  will, 
to  send  the  widow's  son  home  In  his  stead ;  and  the 
Bey  consented.  That  Cervantes  was  a  man !  .  .  . 
Well,  I  was  reading  the  story,  and  I  believed  every 
word  of  it,  as  I  do  still,  for  no  ordinary  person 
could  invent  that  sort  of  tale;  and  I  grew  very 
much  excited  and  wanted  to  know  all  about  Cer- 
vantes. But  as  I  could  only  read  slowly  and  with 
difficulty,   I  was   afraid  the   sun  would   go  down 

13 


Frank  Harris 

before  I  could  get  to  the  end.  While  I  was  read- 
ing as  hard  as  ever  I  could,  \\\y  father  came  down 
on  foot  and  caught  me.  He  hated  to  see  me  read- 
ing— I  don't  know  why;  and  he  was  angry  and 
struck  at  me.  As  I  avoided  the  blow  and  got  away 
from  him,  he  pulled  up  the  picket  hne,  and  got  on 
my  pony  to  drive  one  of  the  bulls  back  to  the  herd. 
I  have  thought  since,  he  must  have  been  very  much 
annoyed  before  he  came  down  and  caught  me. 
For  though  he  knew  a  good  deal  about  bulls,  he 
didn't  show  it  then.  My  pony  was  too  weak  to 
carry  him  easily,  yet  he  acted  as  if  he  had  been 
well  mounted.  For  as  I  said,  the  bulls  were  hun- 
gry and  excited,  and  my  father  should  have  seen 
this  and  driven  the  bull  back  quietly  and  w  ith  great 
patience.  But  no ;  he  wouldn't  let  him  feed  even 
for  a  moment.  At  last  the  bull  turned  on  him. 
My  father  held  the  goad  fairly  against  his  neck, 
but  the  bull  came  on  just  the  same,  and  the  pony 
could  scarcely  get  out  of  the  way  in  time.  In  a 
moment  the  bull  turned  and  prepared  to  rush  at 
him  again.  My  father  sat  still  on  the  little  pony 
and  held  the  goad;  but  I  knew  that  was  no  use; 
he  knew  it  too;  but  he  was  angry  and  wouldn't 
give  in.  At  once  I  ran  in  between  him  and  the 
bull,  and  then  called  to  the  bull,  and  went  slowly 
up  to  him  where  he  was  shaking  his  head  and  paw- 
ing the  ground.  He  was  very  angry,  but  he  knew 
the  difference  between  us  quite  well,  and  he  let 
me  come  close  to  him  without  rushing  at  me,  and 
then  just  shook  his  head  to  show  me  he  was  still 
angry,  and  soon  began  to  feed  quietly.  In  a  mo- 
ment  or  two   I  left   him  and   went  back  to  my 

13 


Monies,  the  Matador 

father.  He  had  got  off  the  pony  and  was  white 
and  trembling,  and  he  said, 

"  '  Are  you  hurt  ?  ' 

"  And  I  said  laughing,  *  No :  he  didn't  want  to 
hurt  me.     He  was  only  showing  off  his  temper.' 

"  And  my  father  said,  '  There's  not  a  man  in 
all  Spain  that  could  have  done  that !  You  know 
more  than  I  do — more  than  anybody.' 

"  After  that  he  let  me  do  as  I  liked,  and  the 
next  two  years  were  very  happy  ones.  First  came 
the  marriage  of  my  second  sister;  then  the  eldest 
one  was  married,  and  they  were  both  good  matches. 
And  the  bulls  sold  well,  and  my  father  had  less  to 
do,  as  I  could  attend  to  the  whole  herd  by  myself. 
Those  were  two  good  years.  My  mother  seemed 
to  love  me  more  and  more  every  day,  or  I  suppose 
I  noticed  it  more,  and  she  praised  me  for  doing 
the  lessons  she  gave  me ;  and  I  had  more  and  more 
time  to  study  as  the  herd  got  to  know  me  better 
and  better. 

"  My  only  trouble  was  that  I  had  never  seen  the 
bulls  in  the  ring.  But  when  I  found  my  father 
was  willing  to  take  me,  and  'twas  mother  who 
wanted  me  not  to  go,  I  put  up  with  that,  too,  and 
said  nothing,  for  I  loved  her  greatly.  Then  of  a 
sudden  came  the  sorrow.  It  was  in  the  late  winter, 
just  before  my  fifteenth  birthday.  I  was  born 
in  March,  I  think.  In  January  my  mother  caught 
cold,  and  as  she  grew  worse  my  father  fetched  the 
doctor,  and  then  her  father  and  mother  came  to 
see  her,  but  nothing  did  any  good.  In  April  she 
died.     I  wanted  to  die  too. 

"  After  her  death  my  father  took  to  grumbling 
14i 


Frank  Harris 

about  the  food  and  house  and  everything.  Noth- 
ing my  sister  could  do  was  right.  I  beheve  she 
only  married  in  the  summer  because  she  couldn't 
stand  his  constant  blame.  At  any  rate  she  mar- 
ried badly,  a  good-for-nothing  who  had  twice  her 
years,  and  who  ill-treated  her  continually.  A 
month  or  two  later  my  father,  who  must  have  been 
fifty,  married  again,  a  young  woman,  a  labourer's 
daughter  without  a  duro.  He  told  me  he  was  go- 
ing to  do  it,  for  the  house  needed  a  woman.  I  sup- 
pose he  was  right.  But  I  was  too  young  then 
to  take  such  things  into  consideration,  and  I  had 
loved  my  mother.  When  I  saw  his  new  wife  I 
did  not  like  her,  and  we  did  not  get  on  well  to- 
gether. 

"  Before  this,  however,  early  in  the  summer  that 
followed  the  death  of  my  mother,  I  went  for  the 
first  time  to  see  a  bull-fight.  My  father  wanted 
me  to  go,  and  my  sister,  too;  so  I  went.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  day.  The  cJiulos  made  me 
laugh,  they  skipped  about  so  and  took  such  extra- 
good  care  of  themselves ;  but  the  handerilleros 
interested  me.  Their  work  required  skill  and  cour- 
age, that  I  saw  at  once ;  but  after  they  had  planted 
the  banderillas  twice,  I  knew  how  it  was  done,  and 
felt  I  could  do  it  just  as  well  or  better.  For  the 
third  or  fourth  handerillero  made  a  mistake!  He 
didn't  even  know  with  which  horn  the  bull  was  go- 
ing to  strike;  so  he  got  frightened,  and  did  not 
plant  the  banderillas  fairly — in  fact,  one  was  on 
the  side  of  the  shoulder  and  the  other  didn't  even 
stick  in.  As  for  the  picadores,  they  didn't  inter- 
est me  at  all.     There  was  no  skill  or  knowledge  in 

15 


Montesy  the  Matador 

their  work.  It  was  for  the  crowd,  who  Hked  to 
see  blood  and  wlio  understand  nothing.  Then 
came  the  turn  of  the  espada.  Ah!  that  seemed 
splendid  to  me.  He  knew  his  work  I  thought  at 
first,  and  his  work  evidently  required  knowledge, 
skill,  courage,  strength — everything.  I  was  in- 
tensely excited,  and  when  the  bull,  struck  to  the 
heart,  fell  prone  on  his  knees,  and  the  blood  gushed 
from  his  nose  and  mouth,  I  cheered  and  cheered  till 
I  was  hoarse.  But  before  the  games  were  over, 
that  very  first  day,  I  saw  more  than  one  matador 
make  a  mistake.  At  first  I  thought  I  must  be 
wrong,  but  soon  the  event  showed  I  was  right. 
For  the  matador  hadn't  even  got  the  bull  to  stand 
square  when  he  tried  his  stroke  and  failed.  You 
don't  know  what  that  means — '  to  stand  square.'  " 

"  I  do  partly,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  don't  see  the 
reason  of  it.     Will  you  explain.?  " 

"  It's  very  simple,"  Montes  answered.  "  So 
long  as  the  bull's  standing  with  one  hoof  in  front 
of  the  other,  his  shoulder-blades  almost  meet,  just 
as  when  you  throw  your  arms  back  and  your  chest 
out;  they  don't  meet,  of  course,  but  the  space  be- 
tween them  is  not  as  regular,  and,  therefore,  not  as 
large  as  it  is  when  their  front  hooves  are  square. 
The  space  between  the  shoulder-blades  is  none  too 
large  at  any  time,  for  you  have  to  strike  with  force 
to  drive  the  sword  through  the  inch-thick  hide, 
and  through  a  foot  of  muscle,  sinew,  and  flesh  be- 
sides to  the  heart.  Nor  is  the  stroke  a  straight 
one.  Then,  too,  there's  always  the  backbone  to 
avoid.  And  the  space  between  the  backbone  and 
the  nearest  thick  gristle  of  the  shoulder-blade  is 

16 


Frank  Harris 

never  more  than  an  inch  and  a  half.  So  if  you 
narrow  this  space  by  even  half  an  inch  you  increase 
your  difficulty  immensely.  And  that's  not  your 
object.  Well,  all  this  I've  been  telling  you,  I  di- 
vined at  once.  Therefore,  when  I  saw  the  bull 
wasn't  standing  quite  square  I  knew  the  matador 
was  either  a  bungler  or  else  very  clever  and  strong 
indeed.  In  a  moment  he  proved  himself  to  be  a 
bungler,  for  his  sword  turned  on  the  shoulder- 
blade,  and  the  bull,  throwing  up  his  head,  almost 
caught  him  on  his  horns.  Then  I  hissed  and  cried, 
'  Shame ! '  And  the  people  stared  at  me.  That 
butcher  tried  five  times  before  he  killed  the  bull, 
and  at  last  even  the  most  ignorant  of  the  spec- 
tators knew  I  had  been  right  in  hissing  him.  He 
was  one  of  your  Mazzantinis,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  no ! "  I  replied,  "  I've  seen  Mazzantini  try 
twice,  but  never  five  times.     That's  too  much !  " 

"  Well,"  Montes  continued  quietly,  "  the  man 
who  tries  once  and  fails  ought  never  to  be  allowed 
in  a  ring  again.  But  to  go  on.  That  first  day 
taught  me  I  could  be  an  espada.  The  only  doubt 
in  my  mind  was  in  regard  to  the  nature  of  the  bulls. 
Should  I  be  able  to  understand  new  bulls — ^bulls, 
too,  from  different  herds  and  of  different  race, 
as  well  as  I  understood  our  bulls?  Going  home 
that  evening  I  tried  to  talk  to  my  father,  but  he 
thought  the  sport  had  been  very  good,  and  when 
I  wanted  to  show  him  the  mistakes  the  matadores 
had  made,  he  laughed  at  me,  and,  taking  hold  of 
my  arm,  he  said,  '  Here's  where  you  need  the 
gristle  before  you  could  kill  a  bull  with  a  sword, 
even  if  he  were  tied  for  you.'    My  father  was  very 

17 


Monies,  the  Matador 

proud  of  his  size  and  strength,  but  what  he  said 
had  reason  in  it,  and  made  me  doubt  myself.  Then 
he  talked  about  the  gains  of  the  matadores.  A 
fortune,  he  said,  was  given  for  a  single  day's  work. 
Even  the  pay  of  the  chulos  seemed  to  me  to  be 
extravagant,  and  a  handerillero  got  enough  to 
make  one  rich  for  life.  That  night  I  thought 
over  all  I  had  seen  and  heard,  and  fell  asleep  and 
dreamt  I  was  an  espada,  the  best  in  Spain,  and 
rich,  and  married  to  a  lovely  girl  with  golden  hair 
— as  boys  do  dream. 

"  Next  day  I  set  myself  to  practice  with  our 
bulls.  First  I  teased  one  till  he  grew  angry  and 
rushed  at  me;  then,  as  a  cliulOy  I  stepped  aside. 
And  after  I  had  practised  this  several  times,  I  be- 
gan to  try  to  move  aside  as  late  as  possible  and  only 
just  as  far  as  was  needful;  for  I  soon  found  out 
the  play  of  horn  of  every  bull  we  had.  The  older 
the  bull  the  heavier  his  neck  and  shoulders  become, 
and,  therefore,  the  sweep  of  horns  in  an  old  bull 
is  much  smaller  than  a  young  one's.  Before  the 
first  morning's  sport  was  over  I  knew  that  with 
our  bulls  at  any  rate  I  could  beat  any  chulo  I  had 
seen  the  day  before.  Then  I  set  myself  to  quiet 
the  bulls,  which  was  a  little  difficult,  and  after  I 
had  succeeded  I  went  back  to  my  pony  to  read 
and  dream.  Next  day  I  played  at  being  a  ban- 
der'illerOy  and  found  out  at  once  that  my  knowl- 
edge of  the  animal  was  all  important.  For  I  knew 
always  on  which  side  to  move  to  avoid  the  bull's 
rush.  I  knew  how  he  meant  to  strike  by  the  way 
he  put  his  head  down.  To  plant  the  banderillas 
perfectly  would  have  been  child's  play  to  me,  at 

18 


Frank  Harris 

least  with  our  bulls.  The  matador^s  work  was 
harder  to  practise.  I  had  no  sword;  besides,  the 
bull  I  wished  to  pretend  to  kill,  was  not  tired  and 
wouldn't  keep  quiet.  Yet  I  went  on  trying.  The 
game  had  a  fascination  for  me.  A  few  days  later, 
provided  with  a  makeshift  red  capay  I  got  a  bull 
far  away  from  the  others.  Then  I  played  with 
him  till  he  was  tired  out.  First  I  played  as  a 
chulo,  and  avoided  his  rushes  by  an  inch  or  two 
only;  then,  as  banderillero,  I  escaped  his  stroke, 
and,  as  I  did  so,  struck  his  neck  with  two  sticks. 
When  he  was  tired  I  approached  him  with  the  capa 
and  found  I  could  make  him  do  what  I  pleased, 
stand  crooked  or  square  in  a  moment,  just  as  I 
liked.  For  I  learned  at  once  that  as  a  rule  the  bull 
rushes  at  the  capa  and  not  at  the  man  who  holds 
it.  Some  bulls,  however,  are  clever  enough  to 
charge  the  man.  For  weeks  I  kept  up  this  game, 
till  one  day  my  father  expressed  his  surprise  at 
the  thin  and  wretched  appearance  of  the  bulls. 
No  wonder !  The  pasture  ground  had  been  a  ring 
to  them  and  me  for  many  a  week. 

"  After  this  I  had  to  play  matador — the  only 
part  which  had  any  interest  for  me — without  first 
tiring  them.  Then  came  a  long  series  of  new 
experiences,  which  in  time  made  me  what  I  was, 
a  real  espada,  but  which  I  can  scarcely  describe 
to  you. 

"  For  power  over  wild  animals  comes  to  a  man, 
as  it  were,  by  leaps  and  bounds.  Of  a  sudden  one 
finds  he  can  make  a  bull  do  something  which  the 
day  before  he  could  not  make  him  do.  It  is  all  a 
matter  of  intimate  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  the 

19 


Monies,  the  Matador 

animal.  Just  as  the  shepherd,  as  I've  been  told, 
knows  the  face  of  each  sheep  in  a  flock  of  a  thou- 
sand, though  I  can  see  no  difference  between  the 
faces  of  sheep,  which  are  all  alike  stupid  to  me, 
so  I  came  to  know  bulls,  with  a  complete  under- 
standing of  the  nature  and  temper  of  each  one. 
It's  just  because  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  acquired 
this  part  of  my  knowledge  that  I  was  so  long- 
winded  in  explaining  to  you  my  first  steps.  What 
I  knew  more  than  I  have  told  you,  will  appear  as 
I  go  on  with  my  story,  and  that  you  must  believe 
or  disbelieve  as  you  think  best." 

*'  Oh,"  I  cried,  "  you've  explained  everything  so 
clearly,  and  thrown  light  on  so  many  things  I 
didn't  understand,  that  I  shall  believe  whatever  you 
tell  me." 

Old  Montes  went  on  as  if  he  hadn't  heard  my 
protestation : 

"  The  next  three  years  were  intolerable  to  me : 
my  stepmother  repaid  my  dislike  with  interest  and 
found  a  hundred  ways  of  making  me  uncomfort- 
able, without  doing  anything  I  could  complain  of 
and  get  altered.  In  the  spring  of  my  nineteenth 
year  I  told  my  father  I  intended  to  go  to  Madrid 
and  become  an  espada.  When  he  found  he  couldn't 
induce  me  to  stay,  he  said  I  might  go.  We  parted, 
and  I  walked  to  Seville;  there  I  did  odd  jobs  for 
a  few  weeks  in  connection  with  the  bull-ring,  such 
as  feeding  the  bulls,  helping  to  separate  them,  and 
so  forth;  and  there  I' made  an  acquaintance  who 
was  afterwards  a  friend.  Juan  Valdera  was  one 
of  the  cuadrilla  of  Girvalda,  a  matador  of  the 
ordinary  type.    Juan  was  from  Estramadura,  and 

2U 


Frank  Harris 

we  could  scarce!}^  understand  each  other  at  first ; 
but  he  was  kindly  and  careless  and  I  took  a  great 
liking  to  him.  He  was  a  fine  man;  tall,  strong 
and  handsome,  with  short,  dark,  wavy  hair  and 
dark  moustache,  and  great  black  eyes.  He  liked 
me,  I  suppose,  because  I  admired  him  and  because 
I  never  wearied  of  hearing  him  tell  of  his  con- 
quests among  women  and  even  great  ladies.  Of 
course  I  told  him  I  wished  to  enter  the  ring,  and 
he  promised  to  help  me  to  get  a  place  in  Madrid 
where  he  knew  many  of  the  officials.  '  You  may 
do  well  with  the  capa,^  I  remember  he  said  con- 
descendingly, '  or  even  as  a  handerillero,  but  you'll 
never  go  further.  You  see,  to  be  an  espada,  as  I 
intend  to  be,  you  must  have  height  and  strength,' 
and  he  stretched  his  fine  figure  as  he  spoke.  I 
acquiesced  humbly  enough.  I  felt  that  perhaps 
he  and  my  father  were  right,  and  I  didn't  know 
whether  I  should  ever  have  strength  enough  for 
the  task  of  an  espada.  To  be  brief,  I  saved  a 
little  money,  and  managed  to  get  to  Madrid  late 
in  the  year,  too  late  for  the  bull-ring.  Thinking 
over  the  matter  I  resolved  to  get  work  in  a  black- 
smith's shop,  and  at  length  succeeded.  As  I  had 
thought,  the  labour  strengthened  me  greatly,  and 
in  the  spring  of  my  twentieth  year,  by  Juan's  help, 

I  got  employed  on  trial  one  Sunday  as  a  chulo. 
^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

''  I  suppose,"  Montes  went  on,  after  a  pause, 
**  I  ought  to  have  been  excited  and  nervous  on  that 
first  Sunday — but  I  wasn't;  I  was  only  eager  to 
do  well  in  order  to  get  engaged  for  the  season. 
The  blacksmith,  Antonio,  whom  I  had  worked  with, 

21 


Monies,  the  Matador 

had  advanced  me  the  money  for  my  costume,  and 
Juan  had  taken  me  to  a  tailor  and  got  the  things 
made,  and  what  I  owed  Antonio  and  the  tailor 
weighed  on  me.  Well,  on  that  Sunday  I  was  a 
failure  at  first.  I  went  in  the  procession  with  the 
rest,  then  with  the  others  I  fluttered  my  capa; 
but  when  the  bull  rushed  at  me,  instead  of  run- 
ning away,  like  the  rest,  I  wrapped  my  capa  about 
me  and,  just  as  his  horns  were  touching  me,  I 
moved  aside — not  half  a  pace.  The  spectators 
cheered  me,  it  is  true,  and  I  thought  I  had  done 
very  well,  until  Juan  came  over  to  me,  and  said: 

"  '  You  mustn't  show  off^  like  that.  First  of 
all,  you'll  get  killed  if  you  play  that  game;  and 
then  you  fellows  with  the  capa  are  there  to  make 
the  bull  run  about,  to  tire  him  out  so  that  we 
matadores  may  kill  him.' 

"  That  was  my  first  lesson  in  professional  jeal- 
ousy. After  that  I  ran  about  like  the  rest,  but 
without  much  heart  in  the  sport.  It  seemed  to 
me  stupid.  Besides,  from  Juan's  anger  and  con- 
tempt, I  felt  sure  I  shouldn't  get  a  permanent 
engagement.  Bit  by  bit,  however,  my  spirits  rose 
again  w  ith  the  exercise,  and  when  the  fifth  or  sixth 
bull  came  in^  I  resolved  to  make  him  run.  It  was 
a  good,  honest  bull;  I  saw  that  at  once;  he  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  excited,  but  not  angry, 
in  spite  of  the  waving  of  the  capas  all  round  him. 
As  soon  as  my  turn  came,  I  ran  forward,  nearer 
to  him  than  the  others  had  considered  safe,  and 
waved  the  challenge  with  my  capa.  At  once  he 
rushed  at  it,  and  I  gave  him  a  long  run,  half 
round  the  circle,  and  ended  it  by  stopping  and 


Frank  Harris 

letting  him  toss  the  capa  which  I  held  not  quite 
at  arm's  length  from  my  body.  As  I  did  this  I 
didn't  turn  round  to  face  him.  I  knew  he'd  toss 
the  capa  and  not  me,  but  the  crowd  rose  and 
cheered  as  if  the  thing  were  extraordinary.  Then 
I  felt  sure  I  should  be  engaged,  and  I  was  per- 
fectly happy.  Only  Juan  said  to  me  a  few  min- 
utes later: 

" '  You'll  be  killed,  my  boy,  one  of  these  fine 
daj^s  if  you  try  those  games.  Your  life  will  be 
a  short  one  if  you  begin  by  trusting  a  bull.' 

"  But  I  didn't  mind  what  he  said.  I  thought  he 
meant  it  as  a  friendly  warning,  and  I  was  anxious 
only  to  get  permanently  engaged.  And  sure 
enough,  as  soon  as  the  games  were  over,  I  was 
sent  for  by  the  director.  He  was  kind  to  me,  and 
asked  me  where  I  had  played  before.  I  told  him 
that  was  my  first  trial. 

"  '  Ah ! '  he  said,  turning  to  a  gentleman  who 
was  with  him,  '  I  knew  it,  Senor  Duque ;  such  cour- 
age always  comes  from — want  of  experience,  let 
me  call  it.' 

"  '  No,'  replied  the  gentleman,  whom  I  after- 
wards knew  as  the  Duke  of  Medina  Celi,  the  best 
aficionado,  and  one  of  the  noblest  men  in  Spain; 
'  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Why,'  he  went  on, 
speaking  now  to  me,  '  did  you  keep  your  back 
turned  to  the  bull?' 

"  '  Senor,'  I  answered,  *  'twas  an  honest  bull,  and 
not  angry,  and  I  knew  he'd  toss  the  capa  without 
paying  any  attention  to  me.' 

"'Well,'  said  the  Duke,  'if  you  know  that 
much,  and  aren't  afraid  to  risk  your  life  on  your 


Monies,  the  Matador 

knowledge,  you'll  go  far.  I  must  have  a  talk 
with  you  some  day,  when  I've  more  time ;  you  can 
come  and  see  me.  Send  in  your  name ;  I  shall  re- 
member.' And  as  he  said  this,  he  nodded  to  me 
and  waved  his  hand  to  the  director,  and  went 
away. 

"  Then  and  there  the  director  made  me  sign  an 
engagement  for  the  season,  and  gave  me  one  hun- 
dred duros  as  earnest  money  in  advance  of  my 
pay.  What  an  evening  we  had  after  that !  Juan, 
the  tailor,  Antonio  the  blacksmith,  and  I.  How 
glad  and  proud  I  was  to  be  able  to  pay  my  debts 
and  still  have  sixty  duros  in  my  pocket  after  en- 
tertaining my  friends.  If  Juan  had  not  hurt  me 
every  now  and  then  by  the  way  he  talked  of  my 
f oolhardiness,  I  should  have  told  them  all  I  knew ; 
but  I  didn't.  I  only  said  I  was  engaged  at  a 
salary  of  a  hundred  duros  a  month. 

"  '  What ! '  said  Juan.  '  Come,  tell  the  truth ; 
make  it  fifty.' 

"  *  No,'  I  said ;  '  it  was  a  hundred,'  and  I  pulled 
out  the  money. 

"  '  Well,'  he  said,  '  that  only  shows  what  it  is 
to  be  small  and  young  and  foolhardy !  Here  am  I, 
after  six  years'  experience,  second,  too,  in  the 
cuadrilla  of  Girvalda,  and  I'm  not  getting  much 
more  than  that.' 

"  Still,  in  spite  of  such  little  drawbacks,  in  spite, 
too,  of  the  fact  that  Juan  had  to  go  away  early, 
to  meet  '  a  lovely  creature,'  as  he  said,  that  even- 
ing was  one  of  the  happiest  I  ever  spent. 

"  All  that  summer  through  I  worked  every  Sun- 
day, and  grew  in  favour  with  the  Madrilenos,  and 

24 


Frank  Harris 

with  the  Madrilenas,  though  not  with  these  in 
Juan's  way.  I  was  timid  and  young;  besides,  I 
had  a  picture  of  a  woman  in  my  mind,  and  I  saw 
no  one  hke  it.  So  I  went  on  studying  the  bulls, 
learning  all  I  could  about  the  different  breeds,  and 
watching  them  in  the  ring.  Then  I  sent  money 
to  my  sister  and  to  my  father,  and  was  happy. 

"  In  the  winter  I  was  a  good  deal  with  Antonio ; 
every  day  I  did  a  spell  of  work  in  his  shop  to 
strengthen  myself,  and  he,  I  think,  got  to  know 
that  I  intended  to  become  an  espada.  At  any  rate, 
after  my  first  performance  with  the  capa^  he  be- 
lieved I  could  do  whatever  I  wished.  He  used  often 
to  say  God  had  given  him  strength  and  me  brains, 
and  he  only  wished  he  could  exchange  some  of  his 
muscle  for  some  of  my  wits.  Antonio  was  not 
very  bright,  but  he  was  good-tempered,  kind,  and 
hard-working,  the  only  friend  I  ever  had.  May 
Our  Lady  give  his  soul  rest ! 

"  Next  spring  when  the  director  sent  for  me,  I 
said  that  I  wanted  to  work  as  a  banderillero.  He 
seemed  to  be  surprised,  told  me  I  was  a  favourite 
with  the  capa,  and  had  better  stick  to  that  for 
another  season  at  least.  But  I  was  firm.  Then 
he  asked  me  whether  I  had  ever  used  the  handerillas 
and  where?  The  director  always  believed  I  had 
been  employed  in  some  other  ring  before  I  came 
to  Madrid.  I  told  him  I  was  confident  I  could  do 
the  work.  '  Besides,'  I  added,  '  I  want  more  pay,' 
which  was  an  untruth;  but  the  argument  seemed 
to  him  decisive,  and  he  engaged  me  at  two  hun- 
dred duros  a  month,  under  the  condition  that,  if 
the  spectators  wished  it,  I  should  work  now  and 

25 


Montesy  the  Matador 

then  with  the  capa  as  well.  It  didn't  take  me  long 
to  show  the  aficionados  in  Madrid  that  I  was  as 
good  with  the  handerillas  as  I  was  with  the  capa. 
I  could  plant  them  when  and  where  I  liked.  For 
in  this  season  I  found  I  could  make  the  bull  do 
almost  anything.  You  know  how  the  handerillero 
has  to  excite  the  bull  to  charge  him  before  he  can 
plant  the  darts.  He  does  that  to  make  the  bull 
lower  his  head  well,  and  he  runs  towards  the  bull 
partly  so  that  the  bull  may  not  know  when  to  toss 
his  head  up,  partly  because  he  can  throw  himself 
aside  more  easily  when  he's  running  fairly  fast. 
Well,  again  and  again  I  made  the  bull  lower  his 
head  and  then  walked  to  him,  planted  the  handeril- 
las, and  as  he  struck  upwards  swayed  aside  just 
enough  to  avoid  the  blow.  That  was  an  infinitely 
more  difficult  feat  than  anything  I  had  ever  done 
with  the  capa,  and  it  gave  me  reputation  among 
the  aficionados  and  also  with  the  espadas;  but  the 
ignorant  herd  of  spectators  preferred  my  trick 
with  the  capa.  So  the  season  came  and  went.  I 
had  many  a  carouse  with  Juan,  and  gave  him 
money  from  time  to  time,  because  women  always 
made  him  spend  more  than  he  got.  From  that 
time,  too,  I  gave  my  sister  fifty  duros  a  month, 
and  my  father  Miy.  For  before  the  season  was 
half  over  my  pay  was  raised  to  four  hundred  duros 
a  month,  and  my  name  was  always  put  on  the 
bills.  In  fact  I  was  rich  and  a  favourite  of  the 
public. 

"  So  time  went  on,  and  my  third  season  in 
Madrid  began,  and  with  it  came  the  beginning  of 
the  end.     Never  was  any  one  more  absolutely  con- 


Frank  Harris 

tent  than  I  when  we  were  told  los  toros  would  begin 
in  a  fortnight.  On  the  first  Sunday  I  was  walk- 
ing carelessly  in  the  procession  beside  Juan, 
though  I  could  have  been  next  to  the  espadas,  had 
I  wished,  when  he  suddenly  nudged  me,  saying: 

"  '  Look  up !  there  on  the  second  tier ;  there's 
a  face  for  you.' 

"  I  looked  up,  and  saw  a  girl  with  the  face  of 
my  dreams,  only  much  more  beautiful.  I  sup- 
pose I  must  have  stopped,  for  Juan  pulled  me  by 
the  arm  crying :  '  You're  moonstruck,  man ;  come 
on ! '  and  on  I  went — lovestruck  in  heart  and  brain 
and  body.  What  a  face  it  was !  The  golden  hair 
framed  it  like  a  picture,  but  the  great  eyes  were 
hazel,  and  the  lips  scarlet,  and  she  wore  the  man- 
tilla  like  a  queen.  I  moved  forward  like  a  man 
in  a  dream,  conscious  of  nothing  that  went  on 
round  me,  till  I  heard  Juan  say: 

"  '  She's  looking  at  us.  She  kndws  we've  noticed 
her.  All  right,  pretty  one!  we'll  make  friends 
afterwards.' 

"  '  But  how  ?  '  I  asked,  stupidly. 

"'How!'  he  replied,  mockingly.  *  I'll  just 
send  some  one  to  find  out  who  she  is,  and  then 
you  can  send  her  a  box  for  next  Sunday,  and  pray 
for  her  acquaintance,  and  the  thing's  done.  I 
suppose  that's  her  mother  sitting  behind  her,'  he 
went  on.  '  I  wonder  if  the  other  girl  next  to  her 
is  the  sister.  She's  as  good-looking  as  the  fair- 
haired  one,  and  easier  to  win,  I'd  bet.  Strange 
how  all  the  timid  ones  take  to  me.'  And  again  he 
looked  up. 

"  I  said  nothing ;  nor  did  I  look  up  at  the  place 
27 


Monies,  the  Matador 

where  she  was  sitting ;  but  I  worked  that  day  as  I 
had  never  worked  before.  Then,  for  the  first  time, 
I  did  something  that  has  never  been  done  since  by 
any  one.  The  first  bull  was  honest  and  kindly:  I 
knew  the  sort.  So,  when  the  people  began  to  call 
for  El  Pequefio  (the  little  fellow) — that  was  the 
nickname  they  had  given  me — I  took  up  a  capa, 
and,  when  the  bull  chased  me,  I  stopped  suddenly, 
faced  him,  and  threw  the  caya  round  me.  He  was 
within  ten  paces  of  me  before  he  saw  I  had  stopped, 
and  he  began  to  stop;  but  before  he  came  to  a 
standstill  his  horns  were  within  a  foot  of  me.  He 
tossed  his  head  once  or  twice  as  if  he  would  strike 
me,  and  then  went  off.  The  people  cheered  and 
cheered  as  if  they  would  never  cease.  Then  I  looked 
up  at  her.  She  must  have  been  watching  me,  for 
she  took  the  red  rose  from  her  hair  and  threw  it 
into  the  ring  towards  me,  crying,  '  Bien !  Muy 
bien !     El  Pequefio ! ' 

"  As  I  picked  up  the  rose,  pressed  it  to  my  lips, 
and  hid  it  in  my  breast,  I  realized  all  that  life 
holds  of  triumphant  joy!  .  .  .  Then  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  show  what  I  could  do,  and  everything 
I  did  that  day  seemed  to  delight  the  public.  At 
last,  as  I  planted  the  banderillas,  standing  in  front 
of  the  bull,  and  he  tried  twice  in  quick  succession 
to  strike  me  and  failed,  the  crowd  cheered  and 
cheered  and  cheered,  so  that,  even  when  I  went 
away,  after  bowing  and  stood  among  my  fellows, 
ten  minutes  passed  before  they  would  let  the  game 
go  on.  I  didn't  look  up  again.  No!  I  wanted  to 
keep  the  memory  of  what  she  looked  like  when  she 
threw  me  the  rose. 

38 


Frank  Harris 

"  After  the  games  were  over,  I  met  her,  that 
same  evening.  Juan  had  brought  it  about,  and 
he  talked  easily  enough  to  the  mother  and  daugh- 
ter and  niece,  while  I  listened.  We  all  went,  I 
remember,  to  a  restaurant  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol, 
and  ate  and  drank  together.  I  said  little  or  noth- 
ing the  whole  evening.  The  mother  told  us  they 
had  just  come  from  the  north:  Alvareda  was  the 
family  name;  her  daughter  was  Clemencia,  the 
niece,  Liberata.  I  heard  ever3^thing  in  a  sort  of 
fever  of  hot  pulses  and  cold  fits  of  humility,  while 
Juan  told  them  all  about  himself,  and  what  he 
meant  to  do  and  to  be.  While  Clemencia  listened 
to  him,  I  took  my  fill  of  gazing  at  her.  At  last 
Juan  invited  them  all  to  los  toros  on  the  following 
Sunday,  and  promised  them  the  best  palco  in  the 
ring.  He  found  out,  too,  where  they  lived,  in  a 
little  street  running  parallel  to  the  Alcala,  and 
assured  them  of  our  visit  within  the  week.  Then 
they  left,  and  as  they  w^nt  out  of  the  door  Liber- 
ata looked  at  Juan,  while  Clemencia  chatted  with 
him  and  teased  him. 

"  '  That's  all  right,'  said  Juan,  turning  to  me 
when  they  were  gone,  '  and  I  don't  know  which  is 
the  more  taking,  the  niece  or  Clemencia.  Perhaps 
the  niece;  she  looks  at  one  so  appealingly;  and 
those  who  talk  so  with  their  eyes  are  always  the 
best.  I  wonder  have  they  any  money.  One  might 
do  worse  than  either  with  a  good  portion.' 

"  '  Is  that  your  real  opinion  ?  '  I  asked  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"  '  Yes,'  he  answered ;  '  why  ?  ' 

"  *  Because,  in  that  case  leave  Clemencia  to  me. 
39 


MonteSy  the  Matador 

Of  course  jou  could  win  her  if  j^ou  wanted  to.  But 
it  makes  no  difference  to  you,  and  to  me  all  the 
difference.  If  I  cannot  marry  her,  I  shall  never 
marry.' 

"  '  Gesu ! '  he  cried,  '  how  fast  you  go,  but  I'd 
do  more  than  that  for  you,  Montes ;  and  besides, 
the  niece  really  pleases  me  better.' 

"  So  the  matter  was  settled  between  us. 

"  Now,  if  I  could  tell  yoii  all  that  happened,  I 
would.  But  much  escaped  me  at  the  time  that  I 
afterwards  remembered,  and  many  things  that 
then  seemed  to  me  to  be  as  sure  as  a  straight 
stroke,  have  since  grown  confused.  I  only  know 
that  Juan  and  I  met  them  often,  and  that  Juan 
paid  court  to  the  niece,  while  I  from  time  to  time 
talked  timidly  to  Clemencia. 

"  One  Sunday  after  another  came  and  went,  and 
we  grew  to  know  each  other  well.  Clemencia  did 
not  chatter  like  other  women:  I  liked  her  the  bet- 
ter for  it,  and  when  I  came  to  know  she  was  very 
proud,  I  liked  that,  too.  She  charmed  me;  why.^^ 
I  can  scarcely  tell.  I  saw  her  faults  gradually, 
but  even  her  faults  appeared  to  me  fascinating. 
Her  pride  was  insensate.  I  remember  one  Sunday 
afternoon  after  the  games,  I  happened  to  go  into 
a  restaurant,  and  found  her  sitting  there  with  her 
mother.  I  was  in  costume  and  carried  in  my  hand 
a  great  nosegay  of  roses  that  a  lady  had  thrown 
me  in  the  ring.  Of  course  as  soon  as  I  saw  Cle- 
mencia I  went  over  to  her  and — you  know  it  is  the 
privilege  of  the  matadores  in  Spain,  even  if  they 
do  not  know  the  lady — taking  a  rose  from  the 
bunch  I  presented  it  to  her  as  the  fairest  of  the 

30 


Frank  Harris 

fair.  Coming  from  the  cold  North,  she  didn't 
know  the  custom  and  scarcely  seemed  pleased. 
When  I  explained  it  to  her,  she  exclaimed  that  it 
was  monstrous;  she'd  never  allow  a  mere  matador 
to  take  such  a  liberty  unless  she  knew  and  liked 
him.  Juan  expostulated  with  her  laughingly;  I 
said  nothing;  I  knew  what  qualities  our  work  re- 
quired, and  didn't  think  it  needed  any  defence.  I 
believe  in  that  first  season,  I  came  to  see  that  her 
name  Clemencia  wasn't  very  appropriate.  At  any 
rate  she  had  courage  and  pride,  that  was  certain. 
Very  early  in  our  friendship  she  wanted  to  know 
why  I  didn't  become  an  espada. 

"  '  A  man  without  ambition,'  she  said,  '  was  like 
a  woman  without  beauty.' 

"  I  laughed  at  this  and  told  her  my  ambition  was 
to  do  my  work  well,  and  advancement  was  sure  to 
follow  in  due  course.  Love  of  her  seemed  to  have 
killed  ambition  in  me.  But  no.  She  wouldn't  rest 
content  in  spite  of  Juan's  telling  her  my  position 
already  was  more  brilliant  than  that  of  most  of 
the  espadas. 

"  '  He  does  things  with  the  capa  and  the  bander- 
illas  which  no  espada  in  all  Spain  would  care 
to  imitate.  And  that's  position  enough.  Be- 
sides, to  be  an  espada  requires  height  and 
strength.' 

"  As  he  said  this  she  seemed  to  be  convinced, 
but  it  annoyed  me  a  little,  and  afterwards  as  we 
walked  together,  I  said  to  her, 

"  '  If  you  want  to  see  me  work  as  an  espada,  you 
shall.' 

"  '  Oh,  no ! '  she  answered  half  carelessly ;  '  if 

31 


Monies^  the  Matador 

3^ou  can't  do  it,  as  Juan  says,  why  should  you  try  ? 
to  fail  is  worse  than  to  lack  ambition.' 

"  '  Well,'  I  answered,  '  you  shall  see.' 

"  And  then  I  took  my  courage  in  both  hands 
and  went  on: 

"  '  If  you  cared  for  me  I  should  be  the  first 
espada  in  the  world  next  season.' 

"  She  turned  and  looked  at  me  curiously  and 
said, 

"  '  Of  course  I'd  wish  it  if  you  could  do  it.' 

"  And  I  said,  '  See,  I  love  you  as  the  priest  loves 
the  Virgin ;  tell  me  to  be  an  espada  and  I  shall  be 
one  for  the  sake  of  your  love.' 

"  '  That's  what  all  men  say,  but  love  doesn't 
make  a  man  tall  and  strong.' 

"  '  No ;  nor  do  size  and  strength  take  the  place 
of  heart  and  head.  Do  you  love  me?  That's  the 
question.' 

"  '  I  like  you,  yes.  But  love — love,  they  say, 
comes  after  marriage." 

"  '  Will  you  marry  me.^^ ' 

"  '  Become  an  espada  and  then  ask  me  again,' 
she  answered  coquettishly. 

"  The  very  next  day  I  went  to  see  the  Duke 
of  Medina  Celi;  the  servants  would  scarcely  let 
me  pass  till  they  heard  my  name  and  that  the  Duke 
had  asked  me  to  come.  He  received  me  kindly. 
I  told  him  what  I  wanted. 

"  '  Have  you  ever  used  the  sword?  '  he  asked  in 
surprise.  '  Can  you  do  it?  You  see  we  don't 
want  to  lose  the  best  man  with  capa  and  hande- 
rillas  ever  known,  to  get  another  second-class 
espada.' 


Frank  Harris 

''  And  I  answered  him, 

" '  Senor  Duque,  I  have  done  better  with  the 
handerillas  than  I  could  with  the  cap  a.  I  shall 
do  better  with  the  espada  than  with  the  han- 
derillas.' 

"  '  You  little  fiend ! '  he  laughed,  '  I  believe  you 
will,  though  it  is  unheard  of  to  become  an  espada 
without  training;  but  now  for  the  means.  All  the 
espadas  are  engaged ;  it'll  be  difficult.  Let  me  see. 
.  .  .  The  Queen  has  asked  me  to  superintend  the 
sports  early  in  July,  and  then  I  shall  give  you  your 
chance.  Will  that  do.''  In  the  meantime,  aston- 
ish us  all  with  capa  and  handerillas^  so  that  men 
may  not  think  me  mad  when  I  put  your  name  first 
on  the  bill.' 

"  I  thanked  him  from  my  heart,  as  was  his  due, 
and  after  a  little  more  talk  I  went  away  to  tell 
Clemencia  the  news.     She  only  said: 

"  '  I'm  glad.     Now  you'll  get  Juan  to  help  you.' 

"  I  stared  at  her. 

"'Yes!'  she  went  on,  a  little  impatiently;  'he 
has  been  taught  the  work;  he's  sure  to  be  able  to 
show  you  a  great  deal.' 

"  I  said  not  a  word.  She  was  sincere,  I  saw, 
but  then  she  came  from  the  North  and  knew  noth- 
ing.    I  said  to  myself,  '  That's  how  women  are ! ' 

"  She  continued,  '  Of  course  you're  clever  with 
the  capa  and  handerillas,  and  now  you  must  do 
more  than  ever,  as  the  Duke  said,  to  deserve  your 
chance.'  And  then  she  asked  carelessly,  '  Couldn't 
you  bring  the  Duke  and  introduce  him  to  us  some 
time  or  other?     I  should  like  to  thank  him.' 

"And  I,  thinking  it  meant  our  betrothal,  was 
33 


Monies,  the  Matador 

glad,  and  promised.  And  I  remember  I  did  bring 
him  once  to  the  box  and  he  was  kind  in  a  way,  but 
not  cordial  as  he  always  was  when  alone  with  me, 
and  he  told  Clemencia  that  I'd  go  very  far,  and 
that  any  woman  would  be  lucky  to  get  me  for  a 
husband,  and  so  on.  And  after  a  little  while  he 
went  away.  But  Clemencia  was  angry  with  him 
and  said  he  put  on  airs,  and,  indeed,  I  had  never 
seen  him  so  cold  and  reserved;  I  could  say  little 
or  nothing  in  his  defence. 

"  Well,  all  that  May  I  worked  as  I  had  never 
done.  The  Director  told  me  he  knew  I  was  to  use 
the  espada  on  the  first  Sunday  in  July,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  glad;  and  one  or  two  of  the  best 
espadas  came  to  me  and  said  they'd  heard  the  news 
and  should  be  glad  to  welcome  me  among  them. 
All  this  excited  me,  and  I  did  better  and  better. 
I  used  to  pick  out  the  old  prints  of  Go^^a,  the  great 
painter — you  know  his  works  are  in  the  Prado — 
and  do  everything  the  old  matadores  did,  and  in- 
vent new  things.  But  nothing  '  took '  like  my 
trick  with  the  capa.  One  Sunday,  I  remember,  I 
had  done  it  with  six  bulls,  one  after  the  other,  and 
the  people  cheered  and  cheered.  But  the  seventh 
was  a  bad  bull,  and,  of  course,  I  didn't  do  it.  And 
afterv\'ards  Clemencia  asked  me  why  I  didn't,  and 
I  told  her.  For  you  see  I  didn't  know  then  that 
women  rate  high  what  they  don't  understand. 
Mystery  is  everything  to  them.  As  if  the  explan- 
ation of  such  a  thing  makes  it  any  easier.  A 
man  wins  great  battles  by  seizing  the  right  moment 
and  using  it — the  explanation  is  simple.  One 
must  be  great  in  order  to  know  the  moment,  that's 

34 


Frank  Harris 

all.  But  women  don't  see  that  it  is  only  small 
men  who  exaggerate  the  difficulties  of  their  work. 
Great  men  find  their  work  easy  and  say  so,  and, 
therefore,  you'll  find  that  women  underrate  great 
men  and  overpraise  small  ones.  Clemencia  really 
thought  I  ought  to  learn  the  espada's  work  from 
Juan.  Ah!  women  are  strange  creatures.  .  .  . 
Well,  after  that  Sunday  she  was  always  bothering 
me  to  do  the  capa  trick  with  every  bull. 

"  '  If  you  don't,'  she  used  to  say,  '  you  won't 
get  the  chance  of  being  an  espada'  And  when 
she  saw  I  laughed  and  paid  no  attention  to  her 
talk,  she  became  more  and  more  obstinate. 

" '  If  the  people  get  to  know  you  can  only 
do  it  with  some  bulls,  they  won't  think  much  of 
you.  Do  it  with  every  bull,  then  they  can't  say 
anything.' 

"  And  I  said  '  No !  and  I  shouldn't  be  able  to 
say  anything  either.' 

" '  If  you  love  me  you  will  do  as  I  say ! ' 
"  And  when  I  didn't  do  as  she  wished, — it  was 
madness — she  grew  cold  to  me,  and  sneered  vX 
me,  and  then  urged  me  again,  till  I  half  yielded. 
Really,  by  that  time  I  hardly  knew  what  I  couldn'b 
do,  for  each  day  I  seemed  to  get  greater  power 
over  the  bulls.  At  length  a  Sunday  came,  the 
first,  I  think  in  June,  or  the  last  in  May.  Clemen- 
cia sat  with  her  mother  and  cousin  in  the  best 
palco;  I  had  got  it  from  the  Director,  who  now 
refused  me  nothing.  I  had  done  my  capa  trick 
with  three  bulls,  one  after  the  other,  then  the 
fourth  came  in.  As  soon  as  I  saw  him,  I  knew 
he  was  bad,  cunning  I  mean,  and  with  black  rage 

35 


Monies,  the  Matador 

m  the  heart  of  him.  The  other  men  stood  aside 
to  let  me  do  the  trick,  but  I  wouldn't.  I  ran  away 
like  the  rest,  and  let  him  toss  the  capa.  The  peo- 
ple liked  me,  and  so  they  cheered  just  the  same, 
thinking  I  was  tired;  but  suddenly  Clemencia 
called  out :  '  The  capa  round  the  shoulders ;  the 
capa  trick  ! '  and  I  looked  up  at  her ;  and  she  leaned 
over  the  front  of  the  palco,  and  called  out  the 
words  again. 

"  Then  rage  came  into  me,  rage  at  her  folly 
and  cold  heart;  I  took  off  my  cap  to  her,  and 
tui-ned  and  challenged  the  bull  with  the  capa,  and, 
as  he  put  down  his  head  and  rushed,  I  threw  the 
capa  round  me  and  stood  still.  I  did  not  even 
look  at  him.  I  knew  it  was  no  use.  He  struck 
me  here  on  the  thigh,  and  I  went  up  Into  the  air. 
The  shock  took  away  my  senses.  As  I  came  to 
myself  they  were  carrying  me  out  of  the  ring,  and 
the  people  were  all  standing  up;  but,  as  I  looked 
towards  the  palco,  I  saw  she  wasn't  standing  up: 
she  had  a  handkerchief  before  her  face.  At  first 
I  thought  she  was  crying,  and  I  felt  well,  and 
longed  to  say  to  her,  '  It  doesn't  matter,  I'm  con- 
tent ; '  then  she  put  down  the  handkerchief  and  I 
saw  she  wasn't  crying;  there  wasn't  a  tear  in  her 
eyes.  She  seemed  surprised  merely  and  shocked. 
I  suppose  she  thought  I  could  work  miracles,  or 
rather  she  didn't  care  much  whether  I  was  hurt 
or  not.  That  turned  me  faint  again.  I  came  to 
myself  in  my  bed,  where  I  spent  the  next  month. 
The  doctor  told  the  Duke  of  [Medina  Celi — ^he 
had  come  to  see  me  the  same  afternoon — that  the 
shock  hadn't  injured  me,  but  I  should  be  lame  al- 

36 


Frank  Harris 

ways,  as  the  bull's  horn  had  torn  the  muscles  of 
my  thigh  from  the  bone.  "  How  he  didn't 
bleed  to  death,'  he  said, '  is  a  wonder ;  now  he'll  pull 
through,  but  no  more  play  with  the  bulls  for  him.' 
I  knew  better  than  the  doctor,  but  I  said  nothing 
to  him,  only  to  the  Duke  I  said : 

"  '  Senor,  a  promise  is  a  promise ;  I  shall  use  the 
espada  in  your  show  in  July.' 

"  And  he  said,  '  Yes,  my  poor  boy,  if  you  wish 
it,  and  are  able  to;  but  how  came  you  to  make 
such  a  mistake?  ' 

"  '  I  made  no  mistake,  Senor.' 
"  '  You  knew  you'd  be  struck  ?  ' 
"  I  nodded.     He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment, 
and  then  held  out  his  hand.     He  understood  every- 
thing I'm  sure ;  but  he  said  nothing  to  me  then. 

"  Juan  came  to  see  me  in  the  evening,  and  next 
day  Clemencia  and  her  mother.  Clemencia  was 
sorry,  that  I  could  see,  and  wanted  me  to  forgive 
her.  As  if  I  had  anything  to  forgive  when  she 
stood  there  so  lithe  and  straight,  with  her  flower- 
like face  and  the  appealing  eyes.  Then  came  days 
of  pain  while  the  doctors  forced  the  muscles  back 
into  their  places.  Soon  I  was  able  to  get  up,  with 
a  crutch,  and  limp  about.  As  I  grew  better,  Cle- 
mencia came  seldomer,  and  when  she  came,  her 
mother  never  left  the  room.  I  knew  what  that 
meant.  She  had  told  her  mother  not  to  go  away ; 
for,  though  the  mother  thought  no  one  good 
enough  for  her  daughter,  yet  she  pitied  me,  and 
would  have  left  us  alone — sometimes.  She  had  a 
woman's  heart.  But  no,  not  once.  Then  I  set 
myself  to  get  well  soon.     I  would  show  them  all, 

37 


Montesy  the  Matador 

I  said  to  myself,  that  a  lame  Montes  was  worth 
more  than  other  men.  And  I  got  better,  so  the 
doctor  said,  with  surprising  speed.  .  .  .  One  day, 
towards  the  end  of  June,  I  said  to  the  servant  of 
the  Duke — he  sent  a  servant  every  day  to  me  with 
fruit  and  flowers — that  I  wished  greatly  to  see 
his  master.  And  the  Duke  came  to  see  me,  the 
very  same  day. 

"  I  thanked  him  first  for  all  his  kindness  to  me, 
and  then  asked: 

"  '  Senor,  have  you  put  my  name  on  the  bills 
as  espada?  ' 

"  '  No,'  he  replied ;  '  you  must  get  well  first, 
and,  indeed,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  not 
try  an}' thing  more  till  next  season.' 

"  And  I  said,  '  Senor  Duque,  it  presses.  Be- 
lieve me,  weak  as  I  am,  I  can  use  the  sword.' 

"  And  he  answered  my  very  thought :  '  Ah !  She 
thinks  you  can't.  And  you  want  to  prove  the 
contrary.  I  shouldn't  take  the  trouble,  if  I  were 
you;  but  there!  Don't  deceive  yourself  or  me; 
there  is  time  yet  for  three  or  four  days :  I'll  come 
again  to  see  you,  and  if  you  wish  to  have  your 
chance  you  shall.  I  give  you  my  word.'  As  he 
left  the  room  I  had  tears  in  my  eyes;  but  I  was 
glad,  too,  and  confident :  I'd  teach  the  false  friends 
a  lesson.  Save  Antonio,  the  blacksmith,  and 
some  strangers,  and  the  Duke's  servant,  no  one 
had  come  near  me  for  more  than  a  week.  Three 
days  afterwards  I  wrote  to  the  Duke  asking  him 
to  fulfil  his  promise,  and  the  very  next  day  Juan, 
Clemencia,  and  her  mother  all  came  to  see  me  to- 
gether.     The}'  all  wanted  to  know  what  it  meant. 

C3 


Frank  Harris 

My  name  as  espada  for  the  next  Sunday,  they 
said,  was  first  on  the  bills  placarded  all  over  Mad- 
rid, and  the  Duke  had  put  underneath  it — '  By 
special  request  of  H.M.  the  Queen.'  I  said  noth- 
ing but  that  I  was  going  to  work;  and  I  noticed 
that  Clemencia  wouldn't  meet  my  eyes. 

"  What  a  day  that  was !  That  Sunday  I  mean. 
The  Queen  was  in  her  box  with  the  Duke  beside 
her  as  our  procession  saluted  them,  and  the  great 
ring  was  crowded  tier  on  tier,  and  she  was  in  the 
best  box  I  could  get.  But  I  tried  not  to  think 
about  her.  My  heart  seemed  to  be  frozen.  Still 
I  know  now  that  I  worked  for  her  even  then. 
When  the  first  bull  came  in  and  the  capa  men 
played  him,  the  people  began  to  shout  for  me — 
'El  Pequeno!  El  Pequeno !  ElPequeno!' — and 
wouldn't  let  the  games  go  on.  So  I  limped  for- 
ward in  my  espada's  dress  and  took  a  capa  from 
a  man  and  challenged  the  bull,  and  he  rushed  at 
me — the  honest  one;  I  caught  his  look  and  knew 
it  was  all  right,  so  I  threw  the  capa  round  me  and 
turned  my  back  upon  him.  In  one  flash  I  saw  the 
people  rise  in  their  places,  and  the  Duke  lean 
over  the  front  of  the  palco;  then,  as  the  bull  hesi- 
tated and  stopped,  and  they  began  to  cheer,  I 
handed  back  the  capa,  and,  after  bowing,  went 
again  among  the  espadas.  Then  the  people 
christened  me  afresh — '  El  Cojo! '  (The  Cripple!) 
— and  I  had  to  come  forward  and  bow  again  and 
again,  and  the  Queen  threw  me  a  gold  cigarette 
case.  I  have  it  still.  There  it  is.  ...  I  never 
looked  up  at  Clemencia,  though  I  could  see  her 
always.     She  threw  no  rose  to  me  that  day.  .  .  • 


Monies,  the  Matador 

Then  the  time  came  when  I  should  kill  the  bull. 
I  took  the  muleta  in  my  left  hand  and  went  towards 
him  with  the  sword  uncovered  in  my  right.  I 
needed  no  trick.  I  held  him  with  my  will,  and 
he  looked  up  at  me.  '  Poor  brute,'  I  thought, 
*  you  are  happier  than  I  am.'  And  he  bowed  his 
head  with  the  great,  wondering,  kindly  eyes,  and 
I  struck  straight  through  to  the  heart.  On  his 
knees  he  fell  at  my  feet,  and  rolled  over  dead, 
almost  without  a  quiver.  As  I  hid  my  sword  in 
the  muleta  and  turned  away,  the  people  found  their 
voices,  '  Well  done.  The  Cripple !  Well  done ! ' 
When  I  left  the  ring  that  day  I  left  it  as  the  first 
espada  in  Spain.  So  the  Duke  said,  and  he  knew 
— none  better.  After  one  more  Sunday  the  sports 
were  over  for  the  year,  but  that  second  Sunday 
I  did  better  than  the  first,  and  I  was  engaged  for 
the  next  season  as  first  espada^  with  fifty  thou- 
sand duros  salary.  Forty  thousand  I  invested  as 
the  Duke  advised — I  have  lived  on  the  interest  ever 

since — the  other  ten  thousand  I  kept  by  me. 
***** 

"  I  had  resolved  never  to  go  near  Clemencia 
again,  and  I  kept  my  resolve  for  weeks.  One  day 
Juan  came  and  told  me  Clemencia  was  suffering 
because  of  my  absence.     He  said : 

"  '  She's  proud,  you  know,  proud  as  the  devil, 
and  she  won't  come  and  see  you  or  send  to  you, 
but  she  loves  you.  There's  no  doubt  of  that:  she 
loves  you.  I  know  them,  and  I  never  saw  a  girl 
so  gone  on  a  man.  Besides  they're  poor  now,  she 
and  her  mother;  they've  eaten  up  nearly  all  they 
had,  and  you're  rich  and  could  help  them.' 

40 


Frank  Harris 

"  That  made  me  think.  I  felt  sure  she  didn't 
love  me.  That  was  plain  enough.  She  hadn't 
even  a  good  heart,  or  she  would  have  come  and 
cheered  me  up  when  I  lay  wounded — because  of 
her  obstinate  folly.  No!  It  wasn't  worth  while 
suffering  any  more  on  her  account.  That  was 
clear.  But  if  she  needed  me,  if  she  were  really 
poor?  Oh,  that  I  couldn't  stand.  I'd  go  to  her. 
'  Are  you  sure? '  I  asked  Juan,  and  when  he  said 
he  was,  I  said : 

" '  Then  I'll  visit  them  to-morrow.' 

"  And  on  the  next  day  I  went.  Clemencia  re- 
ceived me  as  usual :  she  was  too  proud  to  notice  my 
long  absence,  but  the  mother  wanted  to  know  why 
I  had  kept  away  from  them  so  long.  From  that 
time  on  the  mother  seemed  to  like  me  greatly.  I 
told  her  I  was  still  sore — which  was  the  truth — 
and  I  had  had  much  to  do. 

"  '  Some  lady  fallen  in  love  with  you,  I  suppose,' 
said  Clemencia  half  scoffingly — so  that  I  could 
hardly  believe  she  had  wanted  to  see  me. 

"  '  No,'  I  answered,  looking  at  her,  '  one  doesn't 
get  love  without  seeking  for  it,  sometimes  not  even 
then — when  one's  small  and  lame  as  I  am.' 

"  Gradually  the  old  relations  established  them- 
selves again.  But  I  had  grown  wiser,  and  watched 
her  now  with  keen  eyes  as  I  had  never  done  for- 
merly. I  found  she  had  changed — in  some  subtle 
way  had  become  different.  She  seemed  kinder  to 
me,  but  at  the  same  time  her  character  appeared 
to  be  even  stronger  than  it  had  been.  I  remember 
noticing  one  peculiarity  in  her  I  had  not  remarked 
before.     Her  admiration  of  the  physique  of  men 

41  ^ 


Montesy  the  Matador 

was  now  keen  and  outspoken.  When  we  went  to 
the  theatre  (as  we  often  did)  I  saw  that  the  better- 
looking  and  more  finely-formed  actors  had  a  great 
attraction  for  her.  I  had  never  noticed  this  in  her 
before.  In  fact  she  had  seemed  to  me  to  know 
nothing  about  virile  beauty,  beyond  a  girl's  vague 
liking  for  men  who  were  tall  and  strong.  But  now 
she  looked  at  men  critically.  She  had  changed; 
that  was  certain.  What  was  the  cause.?  ...  I 
could  not  divine.  Poor  fool  that  I  was !  I  didn't 
know  then  that  good  women  seldom  or  never  care 
much  for  mere  bodily  qualities  in  a  man;  the 
women  who  do  are  generally  worthless.  Now,  too, 
she  spoke  well  of  the  men  of  Southern  Spain ;  when 
I  first  met  her  she  professed  to  admire  the  women 
of  the  South,  but  to  think  little  of  the  men.  Now 
she  admired  the  men,  too;  they  were  warmer- 
hearted,  she  said;  had  more  love  and  passion  in 
them,  and  were  gentler  with  women  than  those  of 
the  North.  Somehow  I  hoped  that  she  referred 
to  me,  that  her  heart  was  beginning  to  plead  for 
me,  and  I  was  very  glad  and  proud,  though  it  all 
seemed  too  good  to  be  true. 

"  One  day  in  October,  when  I  called  with  Juan, 
we  found  them  packing  their  things.  They  had 
to  leave,  they  said,  and  take  cheaper  lodgings. 
Juan  looked  at  me,  and  some  way  or  other  I  got 
him  to  take  Clemencia  into  another  room.  Then 
I  spoke  to  the  mother:  Clemencia,  I  hoped,  would 
soon  be  my  wife;  in  any  case  I  couldn't  allow  her 
to  want  for  anything;  I  would  bring  a  thousand 
duros  the  next  day,  and  they  must  not  think  of 
leaving  their  comfortable  apartments.    The  mother 

42 


Frank  Harris 

cried  and  said,  I  was  good :  *  God  makes  few  such 
men,'  and  so  forth.  The  next  day  I  gave  her  the 
money,  and  it  was  arranged  between  us  without 
saying  anything  to  Clemencia.  I  remember  about 
this  time,  in  the  early  winter  of  that  year,  I  began 
to  see  her  faults  more  clearly,  and  I  noticed  that 
she  had  altered  in  many  ways.  Her  temper  had 
changed.  It  used  to  be  equable  though  passion- 
ate. It  had  become  uncertain  and  irritable.  She 
had  changed  greatly.  For  now,  she  would  let  me 
kiss  her  without  remonstrance,  and  sometimes  al- 
most as  if  she  didn't  notice  the  kiss,  whereas  before 
it  used  always  to  be  a  matter  of  importance.  And 
when  I  asked  her  when  she  would  marry  me  she 
would  answer  half-carelessly,  '  Some  time,  I  sup- 
pose,' as  she  used  to  do,  but  her  manner  was  quite 
different.  She  even  sighed  once  as  she  spoke. 
Certainly  she  had  changed.  What  was  the  cause  .^ 
I  couldn't  make  it  out,  therefore  I  watched,  not 
suspiciously,  but  she  had  grown  a  little  strange 
to  me — a  sort  of  puzzle,  since  she  had  been  so 
unkind  when  I  lay  wounded.  And  partly  from 
this  feeling,  partly  from  my  great  love  for  her, 
I  noticed  everything.  Still  I  urged  her  to  marry 
me.  I  thought  as  soon  as  we  were  married,  and 
she  had  a  child  to  take  care  of  and  to  love,  it  would 
be  all  right  with  both  of  us.     Fool  that  I  was ! 

"  In  April,  which  was  fine,  I  remember,  that 
year  in  Madrid — you  know  how  cold  it  is  away  up 
there,  and  how  keen  the  wind  is ;  as  the  Madrilenos 
say, '  'twon't  blow  out  a  candle,  but  it'll  kill  a  man  ' 
• — Clemencia  began  to  grow  pale  and  nervous.  I 
couldn't  make  her  out;  and  so,  more  than  ever, 

43 


MonteSy  the  Matador 

pity  strengthening  love  in  me,  I  urged  her  to  tell 
me  when  she  would  marry  me;  and  one  day  she 
turned  to  me,  and  I  saw  she  was  quite  white  as  she 
said: 

"  '  After  the   season,  perhaps.* 

"  Then  I  was  happy,  and  ceased  to  press  her. 
Early  in  May  the  games  began — my  golden  time. 
I  had  grown  quite  strong  again,  and  was  surer  of 
myself  than  ever.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing to  deserve  my  great  happiness.  Therefore, 
on  one  of  the  first  days  when  the  Queen  and  the 
Duke  and  Clemencia  were  looking  on,  I  killed  the 
bull  with  the  sword  immediately  after  he  entered 
the  ring,  and  before  he  had  been  tired  at  all.  From 
that  day  on  the  people  seemed  crazy  about  me. 
I  couldn't  walk  in  the  streets  without  being 
cheered;  a  crowd  followed  me  wherever  I  went; 
great  nobles  asked  me  to  their  houses,  and  their 
ladies  made  much  of  me.  But  I  didn't  care,  for 
all  the  time  Clemencia  was  kind,  and  so  I  was 
happy. 

"  One  day  suddenly  she  asked  me  why  I  didn't 
make  Juan  an  espada.  I  told  her  I  had  offered 
him  the  first  place  in  my  cuadrilla;  but  he  wouldn't 
accept  it.  She  declared  that  it  was  natural  of 
him  to  refuse  when  I  had  passed  him  in  the  race; 
but  why  didn't  I  go  to  the  Duke  and  get  him  made 
an  espada?  I  replied  laughingly  that  the  Duke 
didn't  make  men  espadasy  but  God  or  their  parents. 
Then  her  brows  drew  down,  and  she  said  she  hadn't 
thought  to  find  such  mean  jealousy  in  me.  So  I 
answered  her  seriously  that  I  didn't  believe  Juan 
would  succeed  as  an  espada,  or  else  I  should  do 


Frank  Harris 

what  I  could  to  get  him  appointed.  At  once  she 
came  and  put  her  arms  on  my  shoulders,  and  said 
'twas  like  me,  and  she  would  tell  Juan;  and  after 
that  I  could  do  nothing  but  kiss  her.  A  little 
later  I  asked  Juan  about  it,  and  he  told  me  he 
thought  he  could  do  the  work  at  least  as  well  as 
Girvalda,  and  if  I  got  him  the  place,  he  would 
never  forget  my  kindness.  So  I  went  to  the  Di- 
rector and  told  him  what  I  wished.  At  first  he 
refused,  saying  Juan  had  no  talent,  he  would  only 
get  killed.  When  I  pressed  him  he  said  all  the 
espadas  were  engaged,  and  made  other  such  ex- 
cuses. So  at  last  I  said  I'd  work  no  more  unless 
he  gave  Juan  a  chance.  Then  he  yielded  after 
grumbling  a  great  deal. 

"  Two  Sundays  later  Juan  entered  the  ring  for 
the  first  time  as  an  espada.  He  looked  the  part 
to  perfection.  Never  was  there  a  more  splendid 
figure  of  a  man,  and  he  was  radiant  in  silver  and 
blue.  His  mother  was  in  the  box  that  day  with 
Clemencia  and  her  mother.  Just  before  we  all 
parted  as  the  sports  were  about  to  begin,  Clemen- 
cia drew  me  on  one  side,  and  said,  '  You'll  see  that 
he  succeeds,  won't  you?  '  And  I  replied,  '  Yes,  of 
course,  I  will.  Trust  me ;  it'll  be  all  right.'  And 
it  was,  though  I  don't  think  it  would  have  been, 
if  she  hadn't  spoken.  I  remembered  my  promise 
to  her,  and  when  I  saw  that  the  bull  which  Juan 
ought  to  kill  was  vicious,  I  told  another  espada 
to  kill  him,  and  so  got  Juan  an  easy  bull,  which 
I  took  care  to  have  tired  out  before  I  told  him 
the  moment  had  come.  Juan  wasn't  a  coward — 
no!  but  he  hadn't  the  peculiar  nerve  needed  for 

45 


Montesy  the  Matador 

the  business.  The  matador^s  spirit  should  rise 
to  the  danger,  and  Juan's  didn't  rise.  He  was 
white,  but  determined  to  do  his  best.  That  I 
could  see.  So  I  said  to  him,  *  Go  on,  man !  Don't 
lose  time,  or  he'll  get  his  wind  again.  You're  all 
right;  I  shall  be  near  you  as  one  of  your  cuadrilla.* 
And  so  I  was,  and  if  I  hadn't  been,  Juan  would 
have  come  to  grief.  Yes,  he'd  have  come  to  grief 
that  very  first  day. 

"  Naturally  enough  we  spent  the  evening  to- 
gether. It  was  a  real  tertulia,  Seiiora  Alvareda 
said ;  but  Clemencia  sat  silent  with  the  great,  dark 
eyes  turned  in  upon  her  thoughts,  and  the  niece 
and  myself  were  nearly  as  quiet,  while  Juan  talked 
for  every  one,  not  forgetting  himself.  As  he  had 
been  depressed  before  the  trial  so  now  he  was  un- 
duly exultant,  forgetting  altogether,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  not  only  his  nervousness  but  also  that  it 
had  taken  him  two  strokes  to  kill  the  bull.  His 
first  attempt  was  a  failure,  and  the  second  one, 
though  it  brought  the  bull  to  his  knees,  never 
reached  his  heart.  But  Juan  was  delighted  and 
seemed  never  to  weary  of  describing  the  bull  and 
how  he  had  struck  him,  his  mother  listening  to  him 
the  while  adoringly.  It  was  past  midnight  when 
we  parted  from  our  friends ;  and  Juan,  as  we  re- 
turned to  my  rooms,  would  talk  of  nothing  but  the 
salary  he  expected  to  get.  I  was  out  of  sorts ;  he 
had  bragged  so  incessantly  I  had  scarcely  got  a 
word  with  Clemencia,  who  could  hardly  find  time 
to  tell  me  she  had  a  bad  headache.  Juan  would 
come  up  with  me;  he  wanted  to  know  whether  I'd 
go  on  the  morrow  to  the  Director  to  get  him  a 

46 


Frank  Harris 

permanent  engagement.  I  got  rid  of  him,  at 
last,  by  saying  I  was  tired  to  death,  and  it  would 
look  better  to  let  the  Director  come  and  ask  for 
his  services.  So  at  length  we  parted.  After  he 
left  me  I  sat  for  some  time  wondering  at  Clemen- 
cia's  paleness.  She  was  growing  thin  too!  And 
what  thoughts  had  induced  that  rapt  expression 
of  face.? 

"  Next  morning  I  awoke  late  and  had  so  much 
to  do  that  I  resolved  to  put  off  my  visit  to  Cle- 
mencia  till  the  afternoon,  but  in  the  meantime 
the  Director  spoke  to  me  of  Juan  as  rather  a 
bungler,  and  when  I  defended  him,  agreed  at  last 
to  engage  him  for  the  next  four  Sundays.  This 
was  a  better  result  than  I  had  expected,  so  as 
soon  as  I  was  free  I  made  oiF  to  tell  Juan  the 
good  news.  I  met  his  mother  at  the  street  door 
where  she  was  talking  with  some  women;  she  fol- 
lowed me  into  the  patio  saying  Juan  was  not  at 
home. 

" '  Never  mind,'  I  replied  carelessly,  '  I  have 
good  news  for  him,  so  I'll  go  upstairs  to  his  room 
and  wait.' 

"'Oh!'  she  said,  *  you  cin't  do  that;  you 
mustn't;  Juan  wouldn't  like  it.' 

"  Then  I  laughed  outright.  Juan  wouldn't  like 
it — oh  no!  It  was  amusing  to  say  that  when  we 
had  lived  together  like  brothers  for  years,  and  had 
had  no  secrets  from  one  another.  But  she  per- 
sisted and  grew  strangely  hot  and  excited.  Then 
I  thought  to  myself — there  you  are  again;  these 
women  understand  nothing.  So  I  went  away,  tell- 
ing her  to  send  Juan  to  me  as  soon  as  he  came  in, 

47 


Monies,  the  Matador 

At  this  she  seemed  hugely  reheved  and  became 
voluble  in  excuses.  In  fact  her  manner  altered  so 
entirely  that  before  I  had  gone  fifty  yards  down 
the  street,  it  forced  me  to  wonder.  Suddenly  my 
wonder  changed  to  suspicion.  Juan  wasn't  out! 
Who  was  with  him  I  mustn't  see.? 

"  As  I  stopped  involuntarily,  I  saw  a  man  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street  who  bowed  to  me.  I 
went  across  and  said: 

"  '  Friend,  I  am  Montes,  the  matador.  Do  you 
own  this  house?  ' 

"  He  answered  that  he  did,  and  that  every  one 
in  Madrid  knew  me. 

"  So  I  said,  '  Lend  me  a  room  on  your  first-floor 
for  an  hour;  cosa  de  mujer;  (A  lady's  in  the  case.) 
you  understand.' 

"  At  once  he  led  me  up-stairs  and  showed  me  a 
room  from  the  windows  of  which  I  could  see  the 
entrance  to  Juan's  lodging.  I  thanked  him,  and 
when  he  left  me  I  stood  near  the  window  and 
smoked  and  thought.  What  could  it  all  mean.? 
.  .  .  Had  Clemencia  anything  to  do  with  Juan.? 
She  made  me  get  him  his  trial  as  espada;  charged 
me  to  take  care  of  him.  He  was  from  the 
South,  too,  and  she  had  grown  to  like  Southern 
men :  '  they  were  passionate  and  gentle  with 
women.'  Curses  on  her!  Her  paleness  occurred 
to  me,  her  fits  of  abstraction.  As  I  thought,  every 
memory  fitted  into  its  place,  and  what  had  been 
mysterious  grew  plain  to  me;  but  I  wouldn't  ac- 
cept the  evidence  of  reason.  No!  I'd  wait  and 
see.  Then  I'd — at  once  I  grew  quiet.  But  again 
the  thoughts  came — like  the  flies  that  plague  the 

48 


Frank  Harris 

cattle  in  summer  time — and  again  I  brushed  them 
aside,  and  again  thej  returned. 

"  Suddenly  I  saw  Juan's  mother  come  into  the 
street  wearing  altogether  too  careless  an  expres- 
sion. She  looked  about  at  haphazard  as  if  she 
expected  someone.  After  a  moment  or  two  of  this 
she  slipped  back  into  the  'patio  with  mystery  in 
her  sudden  decision  and  haste.  Then  out  came  a 
form  I  knew  well,  and,  with  stately,  even  step, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left, 
walked  down  the  street.  It  was  Clemencia,  as  my 
heart  had  told  me  it  would  be.  I  should  have 
known  her  anywhere  even  had  she  not — just  below 
the  window  where  I  was  watching — put  back  her 
mantilla  with  a  certain  proud  grace  of  movement 
which  I  had  admired  a  hundred  times.  As  she 
moved  her  head  to  feel  that  the  mantilla  draped 
her  properly  I  saw  her  face ;  it  was  drawn  and  set 
like  one  fighting  against  pain.  That  made  me 
smile  with  pleasure. 

"  Five  minutes  later  Juan  swung  out  of  the 
doorway  in  the  full  costume  of  an  espada — ^he 
seemed  to  sleep  in  it  now — with  a  cigarette  between 
his  teeth.  Then  I  grew  sad  and  pitiful.  We  had 
been  such  friends.  I  had  meant  only  good  to  him 
always.  And  he  was  such  a  fool!  I  understood 
it  all  now;  knew,  as  if  I  had  been  told,  that  the 
intimacy  between  them  dated  from  the  time  when 
I  lay  suffering  in  bed.  Thinking  me  useless  and 
never  having  had  any  real  affection  for  me,  Cle- 
mencia had  then  followed  her  inclination  and  tried 
to  win  Juan.  She  had  succeeded  easily  enough, 
no  doubt,  but  not  in  getting  him  to  marry  her. 

49 


Montesy  the  Matador 

Later,  she  induced  me  to  make  Juan  an  es'pada, 
hoping  against  hope  that  he'd  marry  her  when 
his  new  position  had  made  him  rich.  On  the  other 
hand  he  had  set  himself  to  cheat  me  because  of 
the  money  I  had  given  her  mother,  which  relieved 
him  from  the  necessity  of  helping  them,  and  sec- 
ondly, because  it  was  only  through  my  influence 
that  he  could  hope  to  become  an  espada.  Ignoble 
beasts !  And  then  jealousy  seized  me  as  I  thought 
of  her  admiration  of  handsome  men,  and  at  once 
I  saw  her  in  his  arms.  Forthwith  pity,  and  sad- 
ness, and  anger  left  me,  and,  as  I  thought  of  him 
swaggering  past  the  window,  I  laughed  aloud. 
Poor  weak  fools !     I,  too,  could  cheat. 

"  He  had  passed  out  of  the  street.  I  went  down- 
stairs and  thanked  the  landlord  for  his  kindness 
to  me.  '  For  your  good-nature,'  I  said,  '  you  must 
come  and  see  me  work  from  a  box  next  Sunday. 
Ask  for  me,  I  won't  forget.'  And  he  thanked  me 
wdth  many  words  and  said  he  had  never  missed  a 
Sunday  since  he  had  first  seen  me  play  with  the 
capa  three  years  before.  I  laughed  and  nodded 
to  him  and  went  my  way  homewards,  whither  I 
knew  Juan  had  gone  before  me. 

"  As  I  entered  my  room,  he  rose  to  meet  me  with 
a  shadow  as  of  doubt  or  fear  upon  him.  But  I 
laughed  cheerfully,  gaily  enough  to  deceive  even 
so  finished  an  actor  as  he  was,  and  told  him  the 
good  news.  '  Engaged,'  I  cried,  slapping  him  on 
the  shoulder.  '  The  Director  engages  you  for 
four  Sundays  certain.'  And  that  word  '  certain  ' 
made  me  laugh  louder  still — jubilantly.  Then 
afraid  of  overdoing  my   part,   I   sat  quietly   for 

50 


Frank  Harris 

some  time  and  listened  to  his  expressions  of  fat- 
uous self-satisfaction.  As  he  left  me  to  go  and 
trumpet  the  news  from  cafe  to  cafe,  I  had  to 
choke  down  my  contempt  for  him  by  recalling  that 
picture,  by  forcing  myself  to  see  them  in  each 
other's  arms.  Then  I  grew  quiet  again  and  went 
to  call  upon  my  betrothed. 

"  She  was  at  home  and  received  me  as  usual,  but 
with  more  kindness  than  was  her  wont.  '  She  feels 
a  little  remorse  at  deceiving  me,'  I  said  to  myself, 
reading  her  now  as  if  her  soul  were  an  open  book. 
I  told  her  of  Juan's  engagement  and  she  let  slip 
'  I  wish  I  had  known  that  sooner ! '  But  I  did  not 
appear  to  notice  anything.  It  amused  me  now  to 
see  how  shallow  she  was  and  how  blind  I  had  been. 
And  then  I  played  with  her  as  she  had  often, 
doubtless,  played  with  me.  '  He  will  go  far,  will 
Juan,'  I  said,  '  now  that  he  has  begun — very  far, 
in  a  short  time.'  And  within  me  I  laughed  at  the 
double  meaning  as  she  turned  startled  eyes  upon 
me.  And  then,  '  His  old  loves  will  mourn  for  the 
distance  which  must  soon  separate  him  from  them. 
Oh,  yes,  Juan  will  go  far  and  leave  them  behind.' 
I  saw  a  shade  come  upon  her  face,  and,  therefore, 
added :  '  But  no  one  will  grudge  him  his  success. 
He's  so  good-looking  and  good-tempered,  and  kind 
and  true.'  And  then  she  burst  into  tears,  and  I 
went  to  her  and  asked  as  if  suspiciously,  '  Why, 
what's  the  matter  ?  Clemencia ! '  Amid  her  sobs, 
she  told  me  she  didn't  know,  but  she  felt  upset, 
out  of  sorts,  nervous :  she  had  a  headache.  '  Heart- 
ache,' I  laughed  to  myself,  and  bade  her  go  and 
lie  down;  rest  would  do  her  good;  I'd  come  again 

51 


Monies,  the  Matador 

on  the  morrow.  As  I  turned  to  leave  the  room 
she  called  me  back  and  put  her  arms  round  my 
neck  and  asked  me  to  be  patient  with  her ;  she  was 
foolish,  but  she'd  make  it  up  to  me  yet.  .  .  .  And 
I  comforted  her,  the  poor,  shallow  fool,  and  went 
away. 

"  In  some  such  fashion  as  this  the  days  passed ; 
each  hour — now  my  eyes  were  opened — bring- 
ing me  some  fresh  entertainment;  for,  in  spite  of 
their  acting,  I  saw  that  none  of  them  were  happy. 
I  knew  everything.  I  guessed  that  Juan,  loving 
his  liberty,  was  advising  Clemencia  to  make  up 
to  me,  and  I  saw  how  badly  she  played  her  part. 
And  all  this  had  escaped  me  a  few  days  before;  I 
laughed  at  myself  more  contemptuously  than  at 
them.  It  interested  me,  too,  to  see  that  Liberata 
had  grown  suspicious.  She  no  longer  trusted 
Juan's  protestations  implicitly.  Every  now  and 
then,  with  feminine  bitterness,  she  thrust  the  knife 
of  her  own  doubt  and  fear  into  Clemencia's  wound. 
'  Don't  you  think,  Montes,  Clemencia  is  getting 
pale  and  thin?  '  she'd  ask;  '  it  is  for  love  of  you, 
you  know.  She  should  marry  soon.'  And  all  the 
while  she  cursed  me  in  her  heart  for  a  fool,  while 
I  laughed  to  myself.  The  comedy  was  infinitely 
amusing  to  me,  for  now  I  held  the  cords  in  my 
hand,  and  knew  I  could  drop  the  curtain  and  cut 
short  the  acting  just  when  I  liked.  Clemencia's 
mother,  too,  would  sometimes  set  to  work  to  amuse 
me  as  she  went  about  with  eyes  troubled,  as  if 
anxious  for  the  future,  and  yet  stomach-satisfied 
with  the  comforts  of  the  present.  She,  too, 
thought  it  worth  while,  now  and  then,  to  befool 

52 


Frank  Harris 

me,  when  fear  came  upon  her — between  meals. 
That  did  not  please  me !  When  she  tried  to  play 
with  me,  the  inconceivable  stupidity  of  my  former 
blind  trust  became  a  torture  to  me.  Juan's  mother 
I  saw  but  little  of ;  yet  I  liked  her.  She  was  honest 
at  least,  and  deceit  was  difficult  to  her.  Juan  was 
her  idol ;  all  he  did  was  right  in  her  eyes ;  it  was 
not  her  fault  that  she  couldn't  see  he  was  like  a 
poisoned  well.  All  these  days  Juan  was  friendly 
to  me  as  usual,  with  scarcely  a  shade  of  the  old 
condescension  in  his  manner.  He  no  longer  showed 
envy  by  remarking  upon  my  luck.  Since  he  him- 
self had  been  tested,  he  seemed  to  give  me  as  much 
respect  as  his  self-love  could  spare.  Nor  did  he 
now  boast,  as  he  used  to  do,  of  his  height  and 
strength.  Once,  however,  on  the  Friday  evening, 
I  think  it  was,  he  congratulated  Clemencia  on  my 
love  for  her,  and  joked  about  our  marriage.  The 
time  had  come  to  drop  the  curtain  and  make  an 
end. 

"  On  the  Saturday  I  w^nt  to  the  ring  and  or- 
dered my  'palco  to  be  filled  with  flowers.  From 
there  I  went  to  the  Duke  of  Medina  Celi.  He  re- 
ceived me  as  always,  with  kindness,  thought  I 
looked  ill,  and  asked  me  whether  I  felt  the  old 
wound  still.  '  No,'  I  replied,  '  no,  Senor  Duque, 
and  if  I  come  to  you  now  it  is  only  to  thank  you 
once  more  for  all  your  goodness  to  me.' 

"  And  he  said  after  a  pause — I  remember  each 
word ;  for  he  meant  well : 

"  '  Montes,  there's  something  very  wrong.'  And 
then,  '  Montes,  one  should  never  adore  a  woman ; 
they  all  want  a  master.     My  hairs  have  grown 

53 


Monies,  the  Matador 

grey  in  learning  that.  ...  A  woman,  you  see, 
may  look  well  and  yet  be  cold-hearted  and — not 
good.  But  a  man  would  be  a  fool  to  refuse  nuts 
because  one  that  looked  all  right  was  hollow.' 

"  '  You  are  wise,'  I  said,  '  Senor  Duque!  and  I 
have  been  foolish.  I  hope  it  may  be  well  with  you 
always ;  but  wisdom  and  folly  come  to  the  same 
end  at  last.' 

"  After  I  left  him  I  went  to  Antonio  and 
thanked  him,  and  gave  him  a  letter  to  be  opened 
in  a  week.  There  were  three  enclosures  in  it — one 
for  himself,  one  for  the  mother  of  Juan,  and  one 
for  the  mother  of  Clemencia,  and  each  held  three 
thousand  duros.  As  they  had  cheated  me  for 
money,  money  they  should  have — with  my  con- 
tempt. Then  I  went  back  to  the  ring,  and  as  I 
looked  up  to  my  palco  and  saw  that  the  front  of 
it  was  one  bed  of  white  and  scarlet  blossoms,  I 
smiled.  '  White  for  purity,'  I  said,  '  and  scarlet 
for  blood,  a  fit  show ! '  And  I  went  home  and  slept 
like  a  child. 

"  Next  day  in  the  ring  I  killed  two  bulls,  one 
on  his  first  rush,  and  the  other  after  the  usual 
play.  Then  another  espada  worked,  and  then 
came  the  turn  of  Juan.  As  the  bull  stood  pant- 
ing I  looked  up  at  the  palco.  There  they  all  were, 
Clemencia  with  hands  clasped  on  the  flowers  and 
fixed,  dilated  eyes,  her  mother  half  asleep  behind 
her.  Next  to  Clemencia,  the  niece  with  flushed 
cheeks,  and  leaning  on  her  shoulder  his  mother. 
Juan  was  much  more  nervous  than  he  had  been 
on  the  previous  Sunday.  As  his  bull  came  into 
the  ring  he  asked  me  hurriedly :  '  Do  you  think 

54 


Frank  Harris 

it's  an  easy  one  ? '  I  told  him  carelessly  that  all 
bulls  were  easy  and  he  seemed  to  grow  more  and 
more  nervous.  When  the  bull  was  ready  for  him 
he  turned  to  me,  passing  his  tongue  feverishly 
over  his  dry  lips. 

"'You'll  stand  by  me,  won't  you,  Montes?' 

"  And  I  asked  with  a  smile : 

"  '  Shall  I  stand  by  you  as  you've  stood  by 
me?  ' 

"  '  Yes,  of  course,  we've  always  been  friends.' 

"  '  I  shall  be  as  true  to  you  as  you  have  been 
to  me ! '  I  said.  And  I  moved  to  his  right  hand 
and  looked  at  the  bull.  It  was  a  good  one;  I 
couldn't  have  picked  a  better.  In  his  eyes  I  saw 
courage  that  would  never  yield  and  hate  that 
would  strike  in  the  death-throe,  and  I  exulted  and 
held  his  eyes  with  mine,  and  promised  him  revenge. 
While  he  bowed  his  horns  to  the  muleta,  he  still 
looked  at  me  and  I  at  him;  and  as  I  felt  that 
Juan  had  levelled  his  sword,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  striking,  I  raised  my  head  with  a  sweep  to  the 
side,  as  if  I  had  been  the  bull ;  and  as  I  swung,  so 
the  brave  bull  swung  too.  And  then — then  all 
the  ring  swam  round  with  me,  and  yet  I  had  heard 
the  shouting  and  seen  the  spectators  spring  to 
their  feet.   .   .  . 

"  I  was  in  the  street  close  to  the  Alvaredas'. 
The  mother  met  me  at  the  door;  she  was  crying 
and  the  tears  were  running  down  her  fat,  greasy 
cheeks.  She  told  me  Clemencia  had  fainted  and 
had  been  carried  home,  and  Juan  was  dead — 
ripped  open — and  his  mother  distracted,  and  'twas 
a  pity,  for  he  was  so  handsome  and  kind  and  good- 

55 


Monies y  the  Matador 

natured,  and  her  best  dress  was  ruined,  and  los 
toros  shouldn't  be  allowed,  and — as  I  brushed  past 
her  in  disgust — that  Clemencia  was  in  her  room 
crying. 

"  I  went  up-stairs  and  entered  the  room.  There 
she  sat  with  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  her  hair 
all  round  her  face  and  down  her  back,  and  her  fixed 
eyes  stared  at  me.  As  I  closed  the  door  and  folded 
my  arms  and  looked  at  her,  she  rose,  and  her  stare 
grew  wild  with  surprise  and  horror,  and  then,  al- 
most without  moving  her  lips,  she  said: 

"  '  Holy  Virgin  !  You  did  it !  I  see  it  in  your 
face!' 

"  And  my  heart  jumped  against  my  arms  for 
joy,  and  I  said  in  the  same  slow  whisper,  imitating 
her: 

«  *  Yes ;  I  did  it.' 

"  As  I  spoke  she  sprang  forward  with  hate  in 
her  face,  and  poured  out  a  stream  of  loathing  and 
contempt  on  me.  She  vomited  abuse  as  from  her 
very  soul :  I  was  low  and  base  and  cowardly ;  I  was 
— God  knows  what  all.  And  he  was  handsome  and 
kind,  with  a  face  like  a  king.  .  .  .  And  I  had 
thought  she  could  love  me,  me,  the  ugly,  little, 
lame  cur  while  he  was  there.  And  she  laughed. 
She'd  never  have  let  my  lips  touch  her  if  it  hadn't 
been  that  her  mother  liked  me  and  to  please  him. 
And  now  I  had  killed  him,  the  best  friend  I  had. 
Oh,  'twas  horrible!  Then  she  struck  her  head 
with  her  fists  and  asked  how  God,  God,  God  could 
allow  me  to  kill  a  man  whose  finger  was  worth  a 
thousand  lives  such  as  mine ! 

"  Then  I  laughed  and  said : 
56 


Frank  Harris 

"  '  You  mistake.  You  killed  him.  You  made 
him  an  espada — you ! ' 

"  As  I  spoke  her  eyes  grew  fixed  and  her  mouth 
opened,  and  she  seemed  to  struggle  to  speak,  but 
she  only  groaned — and  fell  face  forwards  on  the 
floor. 

"  I  turned  and  left  the  room  as  her  mother  en- 
tered it."     After  a  long  pause  Montes  went  on: 

"  I  heard  afterwards  that  she  died  next  morning 
in  premature  child-birth.  I  left  Madrid  that  night 
and  came  here,  where  I  have  lived  ever  since,  if 
this  can  be  called  living.  .  .  .  Yet  at  times  now 
fairly  content,  save  for  one  thing — '  Remorse  .f^  ' 
Yes ! " — And  the  old  man  rose  to  his  feet,  while 
his  great  eyes  blazing  with  passion  held  me — "  Re- 
morse!    That  I  let  the  bull  kill  him. 

"  I  should  have  torn  his  throat  out  with  my 
own  hands." 


$7 


FIRST   LOVE    (A    CONFESSION) 


S9 


FIRST    LOVE    (A    CONFESSION) 

MY  boyhood  and  youth  were  passed  In  Brigh- 
ton. I  entered  the  College  there  as  a  boy 
of  ten,  and  went  through  every  class  on 
the  Modern  side  in  the  usual  seven  years.  I  only 
tell  this  to  show  that  from  the  beginning  my  father 
intended  me  to  go  into  business,  and  that  I  was 
not  particularly  clever  at  books.  I  loved  football 
as  much  as  I  hated  French,  and  I  learned  more  of 
"  fives  "  in  half  an  hour  than  I  knew  of  German 
after  eight  years'  teaching.  In  fact,  if  It  had  not 
been  for  mathematics  I  should  not  have  got  my 
"  remove  "  each  year  regularly  as  I  managed  to 
do.  There  were  lots  of  fellows  who  could  beat 
my  head  off  at  learning;  but  there  were  very  few 
as  strong  or  as  good  at  games,  and  I'd  have  been 
Captain  of  the  School  If  Wilson,  who  was  one  of 
the  best  "  bats  "  of  his  day  (he  played  afterwards 
for  the  "  Gentlemen  "),  had  not  been  a  contempor- 
ary of  mine.  I  was  not  bad-looking  either.  I  do 
not  mean  I  was  handsome  or  anything  of  that 
sort ;  but  I  was  tall  and  dark,  and  my  features 
were  fairly  regular,  and,  as  I  had  more  of  a 
moustache  than  almost  any  fellow  in  the  school, 
I  rather  fancied  myself. 

After  leaving  Brighton  College,  my  father  got 
me  a  clerkship  with  Lawrence,  Loewenthal  and 
Co.,  stockbrokers,  of  Copthall  Court.  My  father 
was  rector  of  a  Brighton  parish,  and  knew  Mr. 

61 


First  Love  {A  Confession) 

Lawrence  who  came  regularly  to  his  clmrcb.  The 
two  old  boys  were  great  "  pals,"  because,  as  my 
father  said,  they  were  both  Protestants  and  not 
Catholics  in  disguise;  but  I  always  thought  that 
my  father's  liking  for  Mr.  Lawrence's  port  and 
Mr.  Lawrence's  respect  for  my  father's  birth  and 
learning  had  more  to  do  with  their  mutual  esteem. 
However  that  may  be,  old  Lawrence  gave  me  a 
good  start  and  I  turned  it  to  account.  From  the 
first  I  took  to  business.  The  school  work  at  Latin 
and  Greek  had  had  no  meaning  for  me ;  but  in  the 
City  the  tangible  results  of  energy  and  skill  were 
always  before  me,  interesting  me  in  spite  of  myself, 
and  exciting  me  to  do  my  best.  And  rivalry  soon 
came  to  lend  another  spur.  In  Throgmorton 
Street  my  chief  competitors  were  young  German 
Jews,  keen  as  mustard  in  everything  relating  to 
business,  and  preternaturally  sharp  in  scenting 
personal  profit.  Their  acuteness  and  boldness  fas- 
cinated me:  I  went  about  with  them  a  good  deal, 
picked  up  conversational  German  without  much 
effort,  and  soon  learned  from  my  mentors  how 
fortunes  were  to  be  made.  A  little  group  of  us 
pooled  our  savings,  and  began  to  speculate  and, 
after  a  succession  of  gains  and  losses  which  about 
balanced  themselves,  turned  our  tens  into  hundreds 
over  a  "  slump  "  in  American  rails.  Our  success 
was  due  to  Waldstein — the  Julius  Waldstein  who 
has  since  made  a  great  fortune,  and  whom  I  should 
like  to  write  about  some  day  or  other,  as  I  look 
upon  him  as  the  first  financial  genius  of  the  age. 
But  now  I  must  get  on  with  my  story.  It  was  a 
remark  I  made  after  this  lucky  "  deal  "  that  drew 


Frank  Harris 

Mr.  Lawrence's  attention  to  me  and  gave  me  my 
first  step  up  in  the  house.  I  had  gone  into  his 
private  room  with  some  transfers  to  be  signed. 
He  was  reading  a  letter;  in  the  middle  of  it  he 
rang  for  the  managing  clerk,  and  asked  him : 

"How  are  Louisvilles  going?" 

"  I'll  see,"  was  the  reply ;  and  in  a  minute  or 
two  old  Simkins  returned  with : 

"  Steady  at  48." 

I  could  not  help  muttering  "  They'll  be  steadier 
at  35." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  asked  Law- 
rence, with  an  air  of  amused  surprise.  His  tone 
put  me  on  my  mettle,  and  I  laid  my  reasons,  or 
rather  Waldstein's,  before  him,  and  he  soon  saw 
that  I  knew  what  I  was  talking  about.  A  year 
afterwards,  I,  too,  was  a  managing  clerk  and  a 
member  of  the  Stock  Exchange;  and  from  that 
time  on  have  never  found  it  very  difficult  to  lay  by 
something  each  year.  It's  curious,  too,  how  the 
habit  of  saving  grows  on  one — but  I  am  forget- 
ting my  story. 

As  I  became  interested  in  my  work  and  confi- 
dent of  success  I  wanted  some  one  to  talk  to,  to 
brag  to  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  and  life,  I  have 
noticed,  generally  furnishes  us  with  the  oppor- 
tunity of  gratifying  our  desires.  I  still  kept  up 
the  custom  of  going  home  to  Brighton  from  Sat- 
urday till  Monday.  And  one  Sunday  coming  out 
of  church  my  sister  introduced  me  to  some  people 
whom  I  took  to  immediately,  Mrs.  and  Miss  Long- 
den.  Mabel  Longden  was  tall  and  good-looking, 
but  too  dark  for  my  taste.     Still,  we  chummed  at 


First  Love  {A  Confession) 

once,  and  perhaps  got  along  together  better  than 
if  we  had  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight — a  thing,  by 
the  way,  which  I  have  never  believed  in.  Mrs. 
Longden  was  the  widow  of  a  major  in  the  army, 
and  lived  in  a  small  house  in  Kemp  Town.  She 
had  only  a  hundred  a  year  or  so  beyond  her  pen- 
sion, and  her  one  ambition  in  life  was  to  keep  her- 
self and  her  two  daughters  like  ladies.  Her  love 
of  gentilit}'  was  so  passionate  that  when  the  ru- 
mour got  about  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
small  tradesman,  everyone  believed  it.  Mabel  had 
a  sister  whom  I  have  not  mentioned  yet,  perhaps 
because  I  saw  little  of  her  for  some  time,  and  the 
little  I  saw  did  not  interest  me.  She  could  not  have 
been  more  than  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age 
when  I  first  met  her,  and  she  seemed  to  me  an 
ordinary  schoolgirl — all  ribs  and  ankles.  Her 
face  was  not  even  pretty ;  the  eyes  were  all  right, 
greyish  and  large,  but  the  nose  was  inclined  to 
be  thick  and  the  oval  of  the  face  was  too  narrow ; 
the  jaws  seemed  pinched  in,  and  this  peculiarity 
gave  her  an  uncomfortably  sharp  look.  She  was 
a  strange  child  in  every  way,  and  I  did  not  like 
her.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  really  noticed  her. 
I  had  been  talking  to  Mabel  about  business;  tell- 
ing her  how  I  had  nabbed  a  fellow  who  had  tried 
to  cheat  me,  when  suddenly  I  looked  up  and  found 
Blanche  gazing  at  me.  As  our  eyes  met  she  looked 
away  quietly,  and  then  got  up  and  went  out  of 
the  room,  leaving  me  under  the  impression  that 
she  disapproved  of  me,  or  did  not  like  what  I  had 
been  saying.  I  put  this  down  to  "  cheek  "  that 
deserved  to  be  snubbed ;  but  she  never  gave  me  the 

64 


Frank  Harris 

opportunity  of  snubbing  her;  she  seemed  rather 
to  avoid  me. 

A  few  weeks  later  I  was  waiting  one  afternoon 
in  the  little  parlour.  Mabel  had  gone  up  to  dress 
to  go  out  with  me,  when  suddenly  Blanche  came 
into  the  room  with  her  cheeks  aglow,  crying, 
"Where's  mother  .'^  "  She  had  been  skating,  and 
her  sparkling  eyes  and  rich  colour  so  improved 
her  that  I  exclaimed,  "  Why,  Blanche,  you're  quite 
pretty !  "  I  suppose  the  astonishment  in  my  voice 
was  rather  marked;  for  as  I  looked  her  eyes  grew 
indignant;  the  colour  in  her  cheeks  flamed  from 
pink  to  scarlet,  and  she  turned  and  stalked  out 
of  the  room  with  her  chin  in  the  air.  An  absurd 
child;  she  annoyed  without  interesting  me,  and  I 
resolved  to  take  no  further  notice  of  her. 

It  was  easy  to  keep  that  resolution ;  for  about 
this  time  my  companionship  with  Mabel  became 
close:  we  began  to  spoon  in  fact,  and  soon  tried 
to  believe  ourselves  very  much  in  love  with  each 
other.  But  there  w^as  always  something  lacking 
in  our  intimacy,  and  now,  looking  back,  I  see  that 
there  was  no  real  bond  between  us,  and  I  begin  to 
suspect  that  kisses  often  stand  youth  in  lieu  of 
sympathy.  For  even  if  I  would,  I  really  could 
not  tell  much  of  my  flirtation  with  Mabel  Longden. 
She  was  good  to  look  at  and  good  to  be  with,  too 
uniformly  sweet-tempered  ever  to  have  cared  much 
about  me,  I  imagine ;  but  I  know  little  of  her  true 
character  and  temperament ;  for  love  was  not  in 
her,  love  with  its  terrible  need  of  self-betrayal. 
There  were  moments,  it  is  true,  when  we  seemed 
drawn  together,  moments  when  her  eyes  sought 


First  Love  {A  Confession) 

mine  with  timid  abandonment,  and  when  pride  in 
her  looks  and  pity  of  her  weakness  grew  in  me 
to  unselfish  tenderness;  but  there  was  no  enduring 
strength  in  the  feeling,  no  roots  of  life  in  it,  and 
a  few  days'  separation  chilled  us  both.  I  am  glad 
now  to  think  that  the  play  was  pure  comedy  on 
both  sides,  though  at  the  time  I  was  often  vaguely 
disappointed  with  our  aloofness  from  one  another, 
and  tried  by  dwelling  on  her  beauty  to  bring  my- 
self to  the  passionate  ardour  I  ought  to  have  felt 
for  her.  Mabel  never  really  loved  me  at  all;  at 
the  height  of  our  intimacy  I  noticed  that  she  used 
to  lead  me  on  to  talk  of  the  fortune  I  should  make, 
and  of  the  great  house  we  should  have  and  the 
horses  and  carriages,  and  it  seems  to  me  now, 
though  I  am  half  ashamed  to  say  it,  that  it  was 
some  picture  in  her  mind  of  dress  and  jewelry  and 
distinction  which  made  her  try  to  like  me.  In  any 
case  the  matter  is  not  worth  thinking  about  any 
longer,  and  I  only  mention  it  now  because  it  be- 
longs to  my  story. 

I  had  known  Mabel  Longden  for  nearly  two 
years,  and  for  six  or  eight  months  had  spent  three- 
fourths  of  the  time  I  passed  in  Brighton,  with  her, 
when  I  called  early  one  Saturday  evening  and 
found  that  she  was  out.  I  was  a  little  hurt — more 
in  vanity  than  in  affection,  I  think — and  disap- 
pointed, which  I  took  to  be  a  proof  of  feeling, 
whereas  it  was  merely  the  result  of  balked  habit. 
True,  I  was  later  than  usual,  much  later  in  fact; 
but  then  my  father  had  kept  me  talking  of  my 
younger  brother  Tom,  and  I  had  bought  tickets 
for  the  opera  to  make  up  for  my  late  coming.     I 

66 


Frank  Harris 

found  it  difficult  to  disguise  my  bad  humour  when 
I  was  told  that  Mabel  had  gone  out  for  the  even- 
ing and  would  probably  not  be  home  till  eleven. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Longden  apologetically, 
"  you  never  sent  her  word,  and  I  presume  she 
thought  you  were  not  coming  at  all."  While  she 
was  speaking,  my  eyes,  wandering  about  in  hesi- 
tation and  annoyance,  suddenly  caught  sight  of 
an  expression  of  indignant  contempt  on  Blanche's 
face  as  she  sat  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  these  tickets  ?  "  I 
asked,  in  helpless  irritation.  As  I  spoke  Blanche 
kicked  the  fender  and  got  up  hastily,  and  an  idea 
came  into  my  head. 

"  Would  you  let  me  take  Blanche.? "  and  I 
turned  to  Mrs.  Longden. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Longden  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  only  to  be  noticed  because  of  her  un- 
varying suavity ;  "  yes,  certainly ;  and  I  think 
Blanche  would  enjoy  it.     She  loves  music." 

"Well,  Blanche?"  I  asked;  but  there  was  no 
need  of  an  answer,  for  the  girl's  eyes  were  dancing. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  excuse 
her  joy,  "  it  is  '  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro  '  isn't  it.?  and 
I  love  music,  and  Titiens  and  Trebelli  are  both  in 
it.  Oh,"  and  she  drew  in  her  breath  with  delight 
and  clasped  her  hands,  "  it  is  kind  of  you !  " 

"  What  will  you  wear,  dear  ?  "  asked  her  mother, 
and  the  girl's  face  fell  so  lugubriously  that  I  could 
not  help  laughing.  "  Anything  will  do :  we  must 
start  at  once,"  I  said,  and  bustled  them  both  up- 
stairs. I  like  music  as  much  as  most  people,  but 
I  like,  too,  to  talk  between  the  acts,  and  my  com- 

67 


First  Love  {A  Confession) 

panion  that  night  was  more  than  silent;  still 
Tit  lens  was  very  good  in  spite  of  her  bulk,  and 
Trebelli  the  most  enchanting  page  that  was  ever 
seen.  When  she  sang  "  Voi  che  sapete  "  with  that 
angelic  voice  of  hers,  I  was  carried  off  my  feet. 

As  she  finished  the  song  my  companion  gave  a 
queer,  little,  hysterical  squeak  that  turned  all  eyes 
upon  her.  I  saw  that  the  child  was  overwrought ; 
her  face  was  pale  and  pinched,  and  the  eyes  blaz- 
ing, so  I  whispered,  "Let  us  go,  Blanche,  eh?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  said.  "  No !  it  is  too  beautiful 
— please,  please  don't  go." 

"  If  we  stay,"  I  insisted,  "  you  mustn't  cry  out ; 
the  people  are  all  looking  at  you." 

"What  do  the  people  matter?"  she  snapped, 
and  then,  pleadingly,  "  please,  let  me  listen."  Of 
course  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  we 
stayed  to  the  end. 

It  was  a  fine  night,  and  we  walked  home  to- 
gether, Blanche  taking  my  arm. 

"  Are  you  glad  I  took  you  ?  "  I  asked,  feeling 
that  I  should  like  her  to  thank  me;  she  pressed 
my  arm.     But  I  wanted  to  talk,  so  I  went  on: 

"You  liked  the  play,  didn't  you?"  That 
started  her  off ;  she  was  so  excited  with  enthusiasm 
and  admiration  that  she  talked  like  one  out  of 
breath. 

"  The  music,"  she  said,  "  was  divine ;  so  beauti- 
ful, it  hurt.  I  ache  with  it  still.  I  can  never, 
never  forget  it." 

I  laughed  at  her  exaggerations,  and  brought 
her  down  to  common  sense,  and  then  she  began  to 
attack  the  play. 

68 


Frank  Harris 

"  It  was  beastly,"  if  you  please ;  "  all  falsehood 
and  deceit  and  cheating.  I  hope  life  isn't  like 
that,"  she  burst  out,  "  if  it  is,  I  shall  hate  it.  How 
could  Mozart  have  given  that  lovely  music  to  those 
horrid  words  and  horrid  people?    How  could  he?  " 

There  seemed  to  be  some  sense  in  what  she  said, 
but  as  I  knew  very  little  about  it,  I  preferred  to 
change  the  subject.  And  then  the  conversation 
died  away. 

When  we  reached  her  house  I  left  her  at  the 
door.  Somehow  or  other  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to 
go  in  and  make  up  my  little  difference  with  Mabel. 
It  seems  to  me  now  as  if  our  estrangement  began 
that  evening;  but,  indeed,  I  did  not  trouble  much 
about  it,  either  then  or  later.  And  it  was  not  any 
affection  for  Blanche  that  put  Mabel  out  of  my 
head:  no,  the  child  excited  my  curiosity,  and  that 
was  all ;  she  was  evidently  clever,  and  I  liked  that ; 
but  she  was  also  intensely  emotional,  which  seemed 
odd  rather  than  pleasant  to  me. 

For  some  weeks  I  did  not  call  at  the  Longdens, 
and  when  I  called  I  noticed  that  Mabel  was  affected 
in  manner  and  speech.  Her  coldness  I  didn't 
mind ;  in  fact,  I  felt  relieved  by  it ;  but  her  grace- 
ful poses  and  little  slang  phrases  of  gentility 
seemed  ridiculous  to  me.  I  wondered  that  I  had 
never  been  disagreeably  impressed  by  them  before. 
I  felt,  too,  that  they  were  characteristic  of  her; 
she  was  affected  and  vain.  I  did  not  want  to  be 
alone  with  her,  and  though  we  spent  several  after- 
noons together  I  maintained  my  attitude  of  polite 
carelessness.  Mabel  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  my 
change   of  manner;    she   was   often   out  when   I 


First  Love  {A  Confession) 

called,  and  I  fell  upon  the  idea  of  asking  Blanche 
to  accompany  us  whenever  Mabel  happened  to  go 
out  with  me.  At  first  Blanche  used  to  refuse  point 
blank;  but  as  I  returned  to  the  charge  she  con- 
sented now  and  then,  evidently  in  accord  with  her 
sister;  indeed,  Mabel  often  pressed  her  to  say 
"  Yes." 

I  remember  one  Saturday  evening  taking  them 
both  to  dine  at  Mutton's.  We  had  a  private  room 
and  the  best  dinner  the  place  could  afford ;  for  suc- 
cess and  Waldstein's  example  were  teaching  me  to 
be  extravagant  in  such  matters.  The  week  had 
been  a  red-letter  one  for  me ;  I  had  cleared  a  thou- 
sand pounds  in  it  and  naturally  was  cock-a-hoop, 
though  I  did  not  conceal  from  m3'self,  or  even 
from  the  Longdens,  that  my  success  was  due  to 
Waldstein.  In  fact,  towards  the  end  of  the  din- 
ner I  set  his  whole  plan  before  them  and  gave  all 
his  reasons  for  the  course  he  took.  Before  I  had 
got  half  through  the  story  it  was  impossible  not 
to  notice  that  Blanche  was  my  only  listener.  Mabel 
made  polite  exclamations  of  attention  at  the 
proper  places ;  but  she  was  manifestly  rather  bored 
by  the  account,  whereas  Blanche  asked  about  every- 
thing she  didn't  understand,  and  appeared  to  be 
really  engrossed  by  the  dramatic  elements  in  the 
struggle  for  wealth.  Piqued  by  Mabel's  manner, 
I  did  my  best  to  interest  Blanche  and  succeeded,  I 
suppose,  for  Mabel  at  length  left  the  table  and 
took  to  drumming  on  the  window  pane  to  show  her 
impatience. 

"  I  must  go !  "  she  exclaimed  at  last.  "  I  ex- 
pect Captain  Burroughs  to  call  this  evening  to  try 

70 


Frank  Harris 

over  a  song  with  me,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  late." 
After  that  there  was  nothing  left  for  us  but  to 
put  on  our  wraps  and  go.  I  had  met  Captain  Bur- 
roughs at  the  Longdens  more  than  once,  but  had 
not  paid  much  attention  to  him.  He  was  an  ordi- 
nary-looking man,  I  thought,  with  nothing  par- 
ticular about  him  except  that  he  was  well  set-up 
and  had  large  blue  eyes.  Now  as  Mabel  spoke  his 
image  came  before  me,  and  I  understood  that  he 
was  good-looking,  that  she  thought  him  exceed- 
ingly attractive,  and  had  more  than  consoled  her- 
self with  his  courtship  for  my  inattention.  Per- 
haps even  she  had  begun  to  go  her  own  way  before 
I  had  thought  of  going  mine.  Yes,  she  had;  a 
hundred  little  signs  unnoticed  at  the  time  assured 
me  that  she  had.  The  discovery  relieved  and 
pleased  me  greatly;  I  grew  excited  and  felt  quite 
cordial  to  her.  She  was  a  fine  girl  after  all,  and 
deserved  a  handsome  husband  like  Burroughs. 
Was  it  this  elation  or  the  wine  I  had  drunk  that 
made  me  act  as  I  did?  I  don't  know;  the  bare 
facts  are  not  flattering  to  me,  but  I'll  set  them 
down.  Mabel  went  out  of  the  room  first,  as  if  in 
a  hurry  to  get  to  her  Captain;  she  disappeared 
just  as  I  took  up  Blanche's  jacket  to  help  her  on 
with  it.  As  the  young  girl  swung  round  before 
me  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  she  had  a  figure, 
a  figure  that  promised  to  be  a  very  pretty  one, 
and  after  putting  on  her  jacket  I  could  not  help 
taking  her  slender  waist  in  my  hands.  Of  course 
I  said  something  to  cover  my  action :  "  Go  along, 
let  us  catch  Mabel,"  or  something  of  that  sort; 
but  the  words  died  on  my  lips,  for  she  turned 

71 


First  Love  {A   Confession) 

abruptly  and  faced  me  with  an  imperative: 
"Don't!" 

"  Go  along,"  I  repeated  awkwardly,  "  you're 
only  a  child." 

She  moved  away  haughtily,  without  a  word,  and 
followed  her  sister  downstairs. 

The  cab  was  waiting  for  us,  and  as  soon  as  we 
were  seated  in  it  I  forced  a  conversation  with 
Mabel  on  the  subject  of  her  song  and  Captain 
Burroughs'  voice. 

After  this  incident  Blanche  avoided  me  persist- 
ently. At  first,  feeling  rather  uncomfortable,  I 
was  not  at  all  sorry  to  get  out  of  a  complete  ex- 
planation. But  as  the  feeling  of  shame  wore  off 
I  began  to  contrive  occasions  for  being  alone  with 
her.  "  I  don't  care  for  her,"  I  used  to  say  to 
myself,  "  but  I  don't  want  her  to  think  me  a  howl- 
ing cad.''  But  though  I  did  not  care  for  her  she 
was  in  my  thoughts  a  good  deal,  and  knew  how 
to  pique  my  vanity  at  least  by  continually  avoid- 
ing me.  She  was  more  successful  in  this  than  she 
could  have  been  a  few  months  before;  for  now  I 
never  went  to  the  house  without  finding  Burroughs 
in  the  little  parlour  on  the  ground  floor,  filling  the 
place  I  had  formerly  occupied  beside  Mabel.  In 
fact,  about  this  time  Mrs.  Longden  confided  to 
me  that  the  pair  were  engaged,  and  when  I  con- 
gratulated Mabel  I  noticed  that  she  was  prettier 
and  less  affected  than  I  had  ever  imagined  she 
could  be.  Love  is  like  youth  for  hiding  faults 
and  setting  off  merits.  After  this  event  my 
chances  of  meeting  Blanche  alone  became  too 
slight  to  be  worth  the  risk  of  disturbing  the  lovers, 

n 


Frank  Harris 

and  so  I  gave  up  going  to  the  house  at  all  regu- 
larly. Mere  chance  soon  helped  me  where  pur- 
pose had  failed.  One  afternoon  late,  as  I  reached 
the  house  I  found  the  servant  at  the  door,  who 
told  me  that  every  one  was  out  except  Miss 
Blanche.  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it.  Blanche 
was  in  the  parlour  alone,  and  as  I  entered  she 
stood  up  hastily,  and  returned  my  greeting  with 
a  cold  "  I'll  see  if  mother  or  Mabel  is  in."  But 
I  stopped  in  front  of  the  door,  and  said: 

"  Won't  you  speak  to  me,  Blanche  ?  If  I've  of- 
fended you,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Forgive  me,  and 
let  us  be  friends  again."  I  caught  myself  speak- 
ing with  an  intensity  far  greater  than  I  had 
thought  of  using;  and,  as  her  face  did  not  relax 
and  she  kept  her  eyes  obstinately  bent  on  the 
ground,  I  began  again  with  an  extraordinary 
eagerness : 

"  Why  will  you  bear  malice.?  I  had  no  idea  you 
could  be  so  cross.  Just  remember  what  a  great 
talk  we  had  that  night,  and  forgive  me."  Still 
the  same  silence  and  little  downcast  face,  scarcely 
to  be  seen  in  the  gathering  shadows.  I  began 
again :  "  Really,  Blanche,  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself.  It  is  childish  to  sulk  so: 
yes,  childish,"  I  repeated,  for  she  had  looked  up 
at  last.  "  If  you  were  older  you  would  know  that 
every  woman  forgives  when  the  man  apologizes 
and  asks  for  pardon."  She  looked  me  straight  in 
the  face,  but  said  nothing.  Had  I  excited  myself 
by  my  own  pleading,  or  what  was  it?  I  don't 
know ;  but  I  began  again  in  a  different  tone : 

"  Upon  my  word,  if  you  won't  speak,  I'll  treat 
73 


First  Love  {A  Confession) 

you  like  the  little  girl  you  are,  and  kiss  you  into 
a  good  temper." 

"  You  daren't,"  she  said,  and  stood  rigidly. 

"You  mustn't  dare  me,"  I  cried,  and  I  threw 
my  left  arm  round  her  waist,  and  held  her  face  to 
mine  with  my  right  hand.  At  first  she  struggled 
desperately,  and  writhed  so  that  I  could  hardly 
hold  her.  Then  gradually  I  overcame  her  strug- 
gles, and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  describe  the  strange,  keen  pleasure 
I  took  in  the  touch  of  her  lips ;  nor  the  intimate, 
intense  delight  it  gave  me  to  hold  her  tender,  pant- 
ing form  against  my  breast  in  the  darkness. 
Whilst  I  was  still  embracing  and  kissing  her,  the 
idea  came  to  me  that  her  resistance  had  become 
merely  formal;  that  she  was  not  trying  to  avoid 
my  lips.  At  once  conscience  smote  me,  and  I  felt 
that  I  had  been  a  brute.  No  sort  of  excuse  for  me 
— none.  I  pulled  myself  together,  and  stopped 
kissing  her.     Then  I  began  pleading  again. 

"Little  Blanche,  have  you  forgiven  me?  Are 
we  friends  again?  Won't  you  speak  to  me  now?  " 
And  I  laid  my  cheek  to  hers:  the  girl's  face  was 
wet,  and  I  realized  with  a  pang  that  she  was  cry- 
ing silently.  This  was  worse  than  I  had  feared. 
I  was  genuinely  grieved. 

"  Oh,  Blanche,"  I  exclaimed,  "  if  you  knew  how 
sorry  I  am!  Please  don't  cry;  I  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  you;  I'm  so  sorry — what  am  I  to  do?  I'll 
never,  never  forgive  myself."  As  I  began  to  speak 
she  slipped  from  my  arms  and  went  to  the  door. 

"  Blanche,"  I  went  on— for  I  couldn't  let  her 
go  like  that — "  you  must  hate  me  to  leave  me  so ; 

74 


Frank  Harris 

won't  you  say  you'll  forgive  me,  please  ?  "  She 
paused,  holding  the  door  ajar;  then  I  heard  her 
say  in  a  little  subdued  voice, 

"  There's  nothing  to  forgive,"  and  then  "  It 
wasn't  your  fault,"  and  the  door  closed  behind 
her  quickly,  leaving  me  in  the  dark,  half  penitent 
and  half  in  doubt  as  to  her  meaning,  though  the 
tone  of  her  voice  had  partially  reassured  me. 

After  she  left  me  I  seemed  to  be  possessed  by 
a  demon  of  unrest.  Up  and  down  the  parade  I 
tramped  reproaching  myself  for  what  I  had  done. 
I  had  no  business  to  kiss  her.  It  was  a  shame.  I 
felt  very  clearly  that  kisses  meant  infinitely  more 
to  her  than  they  did  to  her  sister.  What  was  I 
to  do?  I  didn't  love  her,  and  yet  I  had  never 
kissed  anyone  with  such  passion.  She  was  an  in-^ 
scrutable  mystery  to  me.  Why  had  she  cried .^ 
Did  she  dislike  me?  Had  she  grown  tired  of 
struggling,  or  merely  affected  to  struggle,  wishing 
all  the  time  to  be  kissed?  This  flattering  hypo- 
thesis seemed  to  be  true ;  but,  if  true,  why  had  she 
begun  to  cry?  And  if  she  had  cried  out  of  vexa- 
tion, why  did  she  say  that  there  was  nothing  to 
forgive,  and  that  it  wasn't  my  fault?  I  couldn't 
read  the  riddle ;  and  it  was  too  fascinating  to  leave 
unread.  I  wanted  to  return  to  the  house  to  see 
her  if  but  for  a  moment,  but  that  went  against  my 
pride.  I  resolved  to  write  to  her.  The  girl  was 
a  mystery,  and  the  mystery  had  an  attraction  for 
me  that  I  could  not  account  for  nor  explain.  That 
night  I  went  up  to  my  little  bedroom  and  sat  down 
to  write  to  her.  I  soon  found  that  the  task  was 
exceedingly  difficult.     At  one  moment  I  was  writ- 

75 


First  Love  {A  Confession) 

ing  as  if  I  loved  her,  and  the  next  I  was  warning 
her  that  I  did  not  love  her  yet.  At  length  I  began 
to  quiet  myself:  "Why  write  at  all?"  But  I 
couldn't  leave  her  without  a  word,  and  so  I  decided 
at  last  to  write  just  a  brief  note,  saying  how 
grieved  I  should  be  to  hurt  or  offend  her  in  any 
way,  and  declaring  that  I  would  call  next  Satur- 
day afternoon  as  soon  as  I  reached  Brighton.  I 
began  "  Dear  little  Blanche,"  and  ended  up  with 
"  I  shall  think  of  you  all  through  the  week ;  yours, 
Will  Rutherford." 

The  week  passed  much  as  other  weeks  had 
passed,  with  this  difference  however,  that  from 
Monday  on  I  began  to  look  forward  more  and 
more  eagerly  to  seeing  Blanche  again.  I  did  not 
write  this  to  her  in  the  meantime,  partly  out  of 
prudence,  partly  out  of  the  wish  to  tell  it  to  her 
when  we  met.  As  soon  as  I  reached  Brighton  on 
the  Saturday  I  hurried  off  to  the  Longdens.  The 
mother  met  me  in  the  parlour. 

"Where's  Blanche.?"  I  asked,  gaily. 

"  Blanche ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Longden,  with  a 
slight  tone  of  surprise ;  "  she  has  gone  into  the 
country  to  stay  with  some  friends." 

"  Into  the  country,"  I  muttered,  in  confusion ; 
"where  to.?" 

"  Near  Winchester,"  came  the  calm  reply. 

"  But  did  she  leave  no  message  for  me — no 
letter.?" 

"  Not  that  I'm  aware  of,"  replied  Mrs.  Long- 
den, smilingly ;  "  I  didn't  even  know  that  you  took 
interest  enough  in  each  other  to  write  or  send 
messages." 

76 


Frank  Harris 

And  that  was  all.  I  left  the  house  more  be- 
wildered than  ever ;  but  my  pride  was  up  in  arms, 
and  I  resolved  to  put  Blanche  out  of  my  mind 
completely.  That  seemed  easy  enough  at  first; 
but  with  time  it  became  increasingly  difficult.  The 
mystery  puzzled  me  more  and  more,  and  the  abrupt 
parting  piqued  my  curiosity.  As  the  weeks  passed 
and  I  recalled  all  our  meetings  and  what  she  had 
said,  I  began  to  see  that  she  was  very  intelligent 
and  very  ingenuous.  At  length  I  couldn't  stand 
it  any  longer;  so  I  wrote  to  her,  telling  her  how 
constantly  I  thought  of  her,  and  begging  her  to 
let  me  see  her.  I  took  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Longden, 
who  promised  to  forward  it,  with  a  request  to 
Blanche  to  answer  it,  and  next  week  Mrs.  Longden 
showed  me  the  end  of  a  letter  Blanche  had  written 
to  her :  "  I  received  the  letter  you  sent  me ;  please 
tell  him  there's  no  answer.  I  have  nothing  to 
say." 

I  had  gone  as  far  as  my  pride  would  allow. 
From  that  day  I  never  went  near  the  Longdens, 
but  gave  myself  up  to  work,  and  gradually  the 
fascination  of  business  took  hold  of  me  once  again. 
Four  or  five  years  later  I  married  and  bought  a 
little  country  place  near  Winchester.  A  year  or 
so  afterwards  I  took  my  wife  to  a  ball  given  by 
the  officers  of  the  Hussars,  who  were  quar- 
tered in  the  Cathedral  city.  I  knew  a  good  many 
people,  and,  as  I  liked  dancing,  prepared  to  en- 
joy myself;  feeling  sure  that  my  wife  would  be 
well  taken  care  of.  After  the  second  or  third 
dance,  a  Captain  Wolfe  come  up  to  me  and  said, 
"  You're  in  luck,  my  friend ;  I'm  going  to  intro- 

77 


First  Love  {A   Confession) 

duce  you  to  the  belle  of  the  ball."  With  some 
laughing  protestation  I  followed  him  and  he  pre- 
sented me  by  simply  saying  "  This  is  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford." 

The  girl  certainly  deserved  his  praise;  she  was 
one  of  those  bewitchingly  pretty  girls  one  sees  now 
and  then  in  England  and  nowhere  else  in  the  world. 
I  cannot  describe  her  except  by  saying  that  she 
was  above  the  middle  height  and  of  a  very  perfect 
lissom  figure,  with  the  most  dazzingly  beautiful 
face  I  have  ever  seen. 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said,  "  but  Captain  Wolfe  for- 
got to  tell  me  your  name." 

"  Don't  you  know  it?  "  she  asked,  while  her  blue 
eyes  danced  with  amusement. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  how  should  1?  I  have  never 
seen  you  before." 

I  spoke  with  absolute  conviction. 

"  What  a  bad  compliment — ^to  forget  me  and 
deny  me!  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself.'^  "  and 
she  pouted  adorably. 

"  The  best  of  compliments,"  I  retorted  warmly ; 
"  the  certainty  that  if  I  had  ever  seen  you  I  could 
never  have  forgotten  you." 

She  swept  me  a  low  courtesy,  and  then,  with 
sudden  gravity,  "  Allow  me  to  introduce  myself. 
Miss  Blanche  Longden  that  was,  now  Miss  Long- 
den." 

I  was  dumbfounded.  The  grace,  the  charm,  the 
self-possession,  I  could  understand,  even  the  fine 
figure :  but  not  the  change  in  face.  Blanche's  nose 
had  been  rather  heavy  and  shapeless,  and  now  it 
was  daintily  cut;  the  pointed  chin  was  rounded, 

78 


Frank  Harris 

the  oval  of  the  face  had  filled  out,  the  eyes  had 
surely  grown  darker,  the  complexion  that  had 
been  muddy  was  now  like  exquisite  porcelain;  but 
even  these  extraordinary  changes  did  not  account 
for  her  entrancing  loveliness.  I  was  lost  in 
wonder. 

She  laughed  in  a  pleased  way  at  my  embarrass- 
ment: 

"  You  don't  recognize  me  even  now  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  confessed  ruefully.  "  You  are  alto- 
gether changed:  even  your  voice  has  improved  be- 
yond recognition." 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  she  said,  "  and  talk,  if  you 
have  this  dance  free ;  "  and  I  sat  down,  careless 
whether  I  was  free  or  not.  At  last  I  should  get 
the  mystery  solved.  What  did  we  talk  about  ?  At 
first  the  usual  things.  Her  sister,  I  learned,  was 
married  and  had  three  children.  She  was  in  India 
now  with  her  husband,  and  Mrs.  Longden,  in 
Brittany,  was  taking  care  of  the  little  ones.  At 
last  I  put  my  question: 

"  Why  did  you  go  away  from  Brighton,  and 
never  answer  my  letters  ?  " 

"  I  did  answer  them.  Mother  told  me  she 
showed  you  my  answer." 

"  That  was  no  answer.  You  have  no  idea  how 
disappointed  and  hurt  I  was ;  how  I  grieved  over 
your  silence."  I  could  not  help  being  much  more 
intense  with  this  girl  than  I  had  any  right  to  be. 
"  But  tell  me  why  you  left  me  so,  and  I'll  forgive 
you." 

She  seemed  to  consider,  and  then: 

"  I  don't  know;  there  was  nothing  to  be  said;  " 

m 


First  Love  {A   Confession) 

and  then,  "  You  are  married,  aren't  you  ?  "  I 
nodded ;  she  went  on :  "  I  want  to  know  your  wife ; 
you  must  introduce  me." 

"  With  pleasure,"  I  replied :  "  but  my  answer ; 
you  will  explain  the  mystery  now." 

"  But  you  must  have  understood  ^  " 

"  No ;  I  did  not,  I  assure  you,  and  even  now  I 
can't  make  out  why  you  acted  as  you  did. 

"  How  strange !  "  And  she  laughed,  looking 
away  from  me.  On  reflection  afterwards,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  this  laughter  of  hers  was  a  trifle  forced ; 
but  I  may  be  mistaken.  At  the  time  I  didn't  re- 
mark the  false  note.  How  strange !  "  she  re- 
peated ;  and  then,  with  sudden  gravity,  "  Shall  I 
dot  the  '  is  '  and  cross  the  '  ts  '  for  you,  and  con- 
fess.? I  wonder  will  it  be  good  for  my  soul.  The 
truth  is  very  simple,  and  yet  very  hard  to  tell.  I 
loved  you.  Oh !  as  a  child,  of  course,  I  mean,  but 
with  an  ideal  passion.  You  never  guessed  it.?  I'm 
glad.  Do  you  know,  I  think  it  began  that  night 
at  the  theatre.  You  won  something  of  the  charm 
of  that  fatal  music  that  seemed  to  me  the  voice 
of  my  soul's  desire.  It  transformed  me ;  the  tide 
of  it  swept  through  me,  and  ebbed  and  flowed  in 
me,  and  bore  me  av,  ay  out  upon  it  till  the  sweet 
tears  scalded  my  e3^es  and  made  my  heart  ache. 
After  that  my  guard  broke  down  before  you ;  the 
way  was  open  and  you  took  possession  of  the 
empty  throne.  How  I  loved  you !  I  invested  you 
with  every  grace  and  every  power ;  you  were  the  lay 
figure  and  I  the  artist.  Forgive  me,  I  don't  mean 
to  hurt  you;  but  that's  the  truth.  You  brought 
the  wild  fresh  air  of  struggle  and  triumph  into 

80 


Frank  Harris 

our  close  narrow  life,  and  I  made  a  hero  of  you, 
that  was  all. 

"  I  think  I  began  by  pitying  you ;  even  in  short 
frocks  some  of  us  are  mothers.  I  saw  that  Mabel 
didn't  love  you  and  was  indignant  with  her.  After 
seeing  her  with  you  my  heart  has  ached  for  you, 
and  I've  gone  out  of  the  room  hating  her  make- 
believe  of  love  and  stopped  in  the  hall  to  talk  to 
your  coat.  How  I  used  to  kiss  and  stroke  it  and 
put  my  cheek  against  it  and  whisper  sweet  things 
to  it !  '  Tell  him,  dear  coat,'  I  used  to  say,  '  that  I 
love  him,  and  he  mustn't  be  sad  or  lonely.  Tell 
him — tell  him  that  I  love  him.'  I  used  to  believe 
that  unconsciously  you  must  receive  some  comfort 
from  those  assurances. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  dinner  when  you  touched 
me?  I  stopped  you;  I  was  so  glad  at  heart  that 
I  had  to  pretend  to  be  angry  for  fear  you'd  under- 
stand. And  that  afternoon  when  you  kissed  me; 
I  provoked  it — on  purpose?  I  don't  know.  I  do 
know  that  I  resisted  as  long  as  I  could,  and  when 
I  could  resist  no  longer,  you  stopped.  How  the 
passion  of  shame  hurt  me  then !  I  thought  I 
should  die  of  it,  and  then  I  thought  of  the  sweet 
unknown  affection  I  had  been  giving  you — all  past 
and  at  an  end — and  the  tears  came.  .  .  .  Well, 
there's  my  confession.  You  see  now  that  I  could 
not  answer  your  letters.  I  had  to  win  back  self- 
respect,  and  I  did." 


There ;  that's  all  the  story.     I  know  I've  told  it 
badly,  but  I've  done  my  best.     What  did  I  say  to 

81 


First  Love  {A   Confession) 

her?  I  played  the  fool.  I  could  find  nothing 
sensible  to  say ;  I  held  my  head  in  my  hands  and 
muttered : 

"And  now?" 

"  And  now,"  she  repeated,  smiling  through  wet 
eyes,  "  I'm  grown  up  and  you're  married,  and  I 
want  to  know  your  wife." 

"And  that's  all?"  I  blundered  on. 

"All?"  she  said;  "all — ^and  enough  too,  I 
should  think."  Her  voice  had  changed  and  grown 
hard ;  even  as  a  girl  she  was  quick-tempered :  "  Do 
you  know  I  look  at  you  and  can't  tell  what  pos- 
sessed me,  what  I  could  have  seen  in  you?  You're 
not  even  like  the  mental  picture  I  had  made  of  you. 
I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  dressed  you  up  in 
those  heroic  vestments.  When  I  look  at  you  I 
wonder  at  myself.  I  must  really  ask  your  wife 
what  she  sees  in  you;  for " 

At  last  I  came  to  sense;  the  beautiful  play 
was  over,  and  I  had  offended  her;  but  she  had 
gone  too  far  in  punishment:  the  words  came  to 
me: 

"  If  you  go  on  hurting  me,  I  shall  think  you  are 
daring  me  again." 

The  blood  surged  to  the  roots  of  her  hair;  she 
rose  and  took  the  arm  of  a  man  who  had  just 
come  up,  and  vanished  from  my  sight;  and  with 
her  going  romance  died  out  of  my  life,  and  the 
grey  walls  of  the  ordinary  shrank  round  and 
hemmed  me  in  for  ever. 

In  the  years  that  have  elapsed  since,  my  business 
instincts  have  often  forced  me  to  try  and  strike  a 
balance:  I  was  richer  by  a  wonderful  memory  and 


Frank  Harris 

poorer  by  the  sense  of  incalculable  loss.  Some- 
times I  try  to  console  mj^self  with  the  thought 
that  perhaps  that  is  all  life  holds,  even  for  the 
luckiest  of  us. 


PROFIT   AND   LOSS 


85 


PROFIT  AND  LOSS 


THE  great  dry-goods  store  was  silent  and 
shadowful.  A  misty  light  glimmering 
through  the  frosted  glass  of  a  little  office 
at  the  back  discovered  dimly  the  lines  of  counters 
stretching  away  into  the  darkness  and  the  spectral 
grey-brown  hangings  which  hid  the  shelves  of 
goods.  In  the  office  a  man  sat  working  amid  a 
pile  of  account-books.  He  was  very  young — to 
judge  by  his  thin,  dark  moustache  not  more  than 
two  or  three  and  twenty  years  of  age,  but  the  ver- 
tical lines  between  his  eyebrows  and  a  certain 
hardness  of  compressed  lips  made  him  appear  five 
years  older.  David  Tryon  was  not  to  be  called 
good-looking,  though  his  features  were  sharply 
cut  and  for  the  most  part  regular,  and  his  dark 
eyes  intent  with  purpose.  His  ugliest  trait,  a  long 
square  chin,  deepened  the  impression  made  by  brow 
and  eyes  and  imparted  to  his  face  a  character  of 
extraordinary  resolution.  As  he  laid  down  his 
pen  and  closed  the  ledger  he  had  been  using,  an 
expression  of  complete  lassitude  came  over  his 
tensely-strung  features ;  he  was  evidently  ex- 
hausted. The  July  day  had  been  excessively  hot, 
and  the  summer  stock-taking  had  made  his  labour 
as  cashier  very  heavy.     For  a  week  past  he  had 

87 


Profit  and  Loss 

worked  eighteen  hours  out  of  every  twenty-four, 
and  now  he  had  just  completed  the  annual  state- 
ment and  drawn  out  the  profit  and  loss  account. 
This  task  was  supposed  to  take  about  a  month, 
but  Tryon  knew  that  his  principal  had  some  special 
reason  for  wishing  to  ascertain  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble how  his  affairs  stood,  and  accordingly  he  had 
overworked  himself,  as  ambitious  young  men  of 
a  nervous,  bilious  temperament  are  apt  to  do.  He 
was  so  worn  out  that  he  could  scarcely  think; 
sleepiness  seemed  to  blunt  and  numb  his  senses. 
He  didn't  notice  the  opening  of  the  office-door, 
and  he  started  when  he  felt  a  hand  laid  upon  his 
shoulder  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his 
chief,  Mr.  Jefferson  Boulger.  Tryon  was  greatly 
surprised.  Mr.  Boulger  lived  in  the  country,  and 
it  was  most  unusual  to  see  him  in  the  store  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night. 

"  Been  working  hard  as  usual,  Dave,"  said  his 
employer  pleasantly,  as  the  young  man  started  to 
his  feet  and  roughly  brushed  his  hair  back  with 
his  hand  as  if  to  drive  away  his  weariness. 

"  I  guess  it'll  worry  you  to  get  out  the  balance- 
sheet  this  year — eh?" 

"  It  has  cost  some  work,"  Tryon  replied,  "  but 
it's  done  now  and  the  statement  of  profit  and  loss 
as  well." 

"  You  don't  say !  I  reckoned  'twould  take  an- 
other week  at  least.  But  you're  real  smart  at 
figures,  and  as  I  was  in  town  I  thought  I'd  look  in 
on  the  chance  " — ^liere  Mr.  Boulger  as  if  correcting 
himself  added  hastily,  "  That  is,  I  s'posed  you'd 
know  about  how  we  stood,  and  anyway  I'd  have  a 

88 


Frank  Harris 

talk  with  you.  Is  that  it?  "  and  he  pointed  to  a 
sheet  of  foolscap  on  the  desk. 

"  That's  it,"  Tryon  answered,  handing  the  paper 
to  his  chief. 

Mr.  Boulger  had  a  large  experience  of  life  and 
some  quickness  of  perception,  but  he  was  not  a 
good  enough  actor  at  this  moment  to  conceal  his 
emotion.  Though  he  turned  sideways  half-hiding 
his  face  as  if  to  read  the  statement  by  the  lamp, 
his  nervousness  was  manifest.  In  truth,  he  had 
good  reason  for  anxiety. 

Mr.  Boulger  was  a  handsome  man — tall  and  well- 
formed,  with  regular  features,  large  blue  eyes,  and 
fair  moustache.  In  spite  of  his  fifty-five  years  he 
seemed  to  be  in  his  prime;  life  had  always  been 
easy  to  him;  his  good  looks  had  made  it  easy. 
They  had  won  for  him  when  still  a  young  man  a 
wife  with  money  and  connections,  and  this  circum- 
stance had  transformed  him  from  a  clerk  into  the 
owner  of  a  business  at  the  time  when  Kansas  City 
began  to  grow  with  such  rapidit}^  that  almost  every 
use  of  capital  brought  large  profits.  Mr.  Boulger 
was  sufficiently  vain  of  his  person,  but  he  was  far 
vainer  of  his  intelligence.  He  ascribed  all  his  suc- 
cess in  life  to  his  ability  ;  the  extraordinary  chances 
which  had  favoured  him,  never  entered  into  his 
thoughts.  It  had,  however,  been  borne  in  upon 
him  lately  that  the  prosperity  of  his  business  was 
anything  but  assured.  The  causes  of  this 
phenomenon  lay  beyond  his  powers  of  vision.  The 
truth  was  that  the  growth  of  Kansas  City  had  be- 
gun to  attract  attention  throughout  the  Union. 
Capitalists  from  Eastern  cities  had  flocked  in  and 

89 


Profit  and  Loss 

established  business-houses  on  a  scale  formerly  un- 
known in  the  Western  town.  And  Mr.  Boulger 
had  not  kept  pace  with  these  new  competitors, 
while  for  reasons  which  will  soon  be  set  forth,  his 
expenses,  always  large,  had  of  late  been  very 
largely  increased.  For  some  time  past  he  had  been 
short  of  money ;  he  was  now  embarrassed  for  want 
of  it ;  and  a  series  of  novel  and  unpleasant  experi- 
ences had,  at  length,  made  him  anxious.  Hence 
his  excitement  when  he  took  up  the  statement  which 
must  show  his  exact  position.  Mechanically  he 
turned  over  the  pages  without  seeing  the  figures, 
though  pretending  to  scan  them  closely,  but  when 
he  came  to  the  nett  results  his  surprise  and  fear 
overcame  his  prudence: 

"  A  million !  A  million  of  goods  here.?  " 
"  Yes,"  said  Tryon,  as  if  following  the  thread 
of  the  elder  man's  thought.  "  The  buyers  this 
year  have  been — unlucky;  the  silk  and  velvet  pat- 
terns have  not  gone  off  well,  and  in  the  cotton 
goods  Marchants  have  taken  nearly  all  the  trade 
away  from  us  by  cutting  prices,  and  so  the  balance 
is  bad." 

"  Bad,"  repeated  Mr.  Boulger,  while  his  blue 
eyes  dilated  with  mingled  fear  and  anger.  "  Bad. 
I  reckon  'tis  bad.  I  don't  see  how  it  could  be  much 
worse.  The  buyers  must  go.  They  ain't  worth 
their  salt.  Wh}^,  we  sold  more  than  this,  fifteen 
years  ago,  when  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  would 
have  bought  up  the  whole  place.  Bad,"  and  his 
voice  rose  passionately,  "  the  salesmen  must  be  bad 
too.  I  don't  believe,"  he  went  on,  bringing  his 
shapely  hand  down  on  the  desk  with  a  thump  in 

90 


Frank  Harris 

his  excitement,  "  I  don't  believe  there's  a  man  in 
the  place  does  his  work  properly — of  course  ex- 
cept you,  Dave." 

"  That  ain't  quite  so,"  Try  on  objected.  "  The 
salesmen  are  fairly  good,  and  they  do  their  best. 
But  the  buyers  don't  seem  to  know  what  the  folk 
out  here  want,  and  there's  no  one  to  put  them 
right." 

"  It's  just  too  bad,"  resumed  Mr.  Boulger,  who 
seemed  to  have  overheard  Tryon's  concluding 
words.  "  Too  bad.  Year  after  year  the  stock 
gets  larger,  and  these  last  four  or  five  years  the 
sales  have  been  f allin'  off.  Why,  I  remember  when 
I  first  took  over  the  place.  I  ran  the  sales  up 
year  after  year,  and  the  stock  remained  about  the 
same.  Then  I  extended  the  business ;  made  this 
the  biggest  dry-goods  house  in  all  the  West;  and 
still  we  used  to  be  short  of  stock  often.  Now  it 
seems  as  if  nothin'  would  go — nothin'.  ...  I  wish 
I'd  had  a  son  to  take  my  place.  No  business  goes 
well  unless  the  head's  there  all  the  time,  and  since 
that  fever  four  years  ago  I've  not  been  able  to 
stick  to  work  as  I  used  to  do.  I  guess  that's  got 
something  to  do  with  it.  I  wish  I'd  had  a  son. 
But  there!  I  believed  the  store  would  run  itself; 
it  always  seemed  so  easy  to  make  things  go  well; 
and  then  I  thought  that  you,  Dave,  would  look 
after  everything.  Why,  since  I  first  took  you  in, 
I've  just  pushed  you  right  along  till  you've  got 
the  best  place  in  the  house,  and  now " 

"  You  forget,  Mr.  Boulger,  that  when  I  advised 
Williams  three  years  ago  what  to  buy,  he  went  to 
you,  and  you  told  me  to  mind  my  own  business 

91 


Profit  and  Loss 

and  not  to  interfere  with  the  buying.  But  even 
now,"  Tryon  went  on,  with  keen  decision  in  his 
voice,  "  it's  not  too  late  to  alter.  I'll  undertake, 
if  you  give  me  the  power,  to  clear  out  a  quarter, 
at  least,  of  this  stock  within  the  year."  (Mr. 
JBoulgcr  made  a  gesture  of  hopelessness.)  "I 
mean  at  fair  prices.  Of  course,  there'd  be  a  loss, 
but  not  much.  Though  I'd  rather  realise  three- 
quarters  of  the  stock  for  what  it  would  bring,  and 
then  start  fresh — most  of  it's  out  of  fashion. 
There's  no  reason  why  the  business  shouldn't  go 
better  than  ever  it  has  gone.  For  though  Mar- 
chants  are  smart  competitors,  the  town's  growing 
very  fast,  and  there's  room  enough  for  us  all." 

"  Perhaps,  but  not  time  enough,  Dave,  not  time 
enough."  And  then,  as  if  taking  up  a  new  train 
of  thought,  and  abandoning  his  despairing  medi- 
tation, Mr.  Boulger  laid  his  hand  on  Tryon's 
shoulder,  and  went  on  earnestly: 

"  I've  been  kind  to  you,  Dave,  and  I  guess  you 
won't  go  back  on  me  now.  No,  I'm  sure  you  won't. 
Well,  time's  what  we  want — time  and  money. 
You're  surprised.  It  seems  strange,  don't  it?  but 
it's  true.  My  home  costs  a  good  deal ;  I've  always 
lived  well.  And  when  Milly  was  married  I  had  to 
fit  her  out.  I  put  up  the  house  for  her  and  all 
that,  and  gave  her  a  good  many  thousand  dollars 
besides.  I  don't  hold  with  the  Yankee  idea  that 
daughters  should  go  empty-handed  to  their  hus- 
bands. And  Mrs.  Boulger  and  the  younger  girls 
spent  a  pile  in  Europe.  I  guess  livin's  dear  there. 
And  they  had  to  make  some  sort  of  a  show.  Any 
way,  I'm  very  short  now.     There's  no  doubt  about 

92 


Frank  Harris 

that.  Stewart  wants  a  large  cheque  to  clear  his 
account,  and  I  don't  like  to  try  to  borrow  from  the 
bank  here — even  if  they'd  lend  it.  I  don't  know 
why  I  talk  to  you  like  this,  Dave ;  but  I  guess  you 
know  about  how  matters  stand,  and  I've  always 
liked  you.     You  know  that.  .  .  . 

"  I  didn't  realise  at  first  how  the  business  was 
goin'.  I  had  kinder  got  used  to  success,  and  took 
things  too  easily,  hopin'  for  better  times ;  and  now, 
just  when  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  work  again 
— you  may  have  noticed  I've  come  regularly  to 
business  this  last  month — it's  too  late.  There's  a 
million  on  these  shelves,  and  I'm  pressed,  worried 
for  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.     It's  too  bad !  " 

"  But  can't  you  sell  your  real  estate,  Mr.  Boul- 
ger,  and  your  trotting  horses  ?  I  don't  mean  your 
house,  but  the  farms  and " 

Mr.  Boulger  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  I've  done  everything,  Dave.  The  real  estate 
is  mortgaged,  and  if  I  sold  my  trottin'  horses 
every  one  would  talk  and  my  credit  would  be  gone. 
No,"  he  added,  shortly,  "  that's  not  the  way." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  during  which  his  fine  eyes 
had  taken  in  the  young  man's  excitement  and  a  cer- 
tain pained,  embarrassed  look  on  the  nervous  face, 
he  repeated,  "  That's  no  good."  The  silence  that 
ensued  was  painful  to  Try  on ;  evidently  he  was  at 
a  loss  what  to  advise. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Boulger  asked,  as  if  the  thought 
had  just  come  into  his  head. 

"What's  the  place  insured  for.?  A  million  at 
least,  ain't  it.?" 

"  About  that,  I  think,  but  it's  placed  in  so  many 
93 


Profit  and  Loss 

different  companies  that  I  couldn't  tell  exactly 
without  looking  it  up  in  the  books." 

"  That  ain't  necessary,"  Mr.  Boulger  went  on ; 
"  I  don't  put  all  my  eggs  in  one  basket.  It  would 
be  worth  while  for  any  Insurance  Office  to  contest 
a  claim  of  a  million,  but  wnen  a  loss  is  small,  an 
Insurance  Company  prefers  to  pay  up  promptly." 
The  look  of  comprehension  which  came  over  Try- 
on's  face  at  this  remark  stimulated  the  vanity  of 
the  older  man,  who  went  on  complacently :  "  Be- 
sides, I  guess  you'll  find  the  London,  Liverpool  and 
Globe  is  down  for  the  largest  amount,  and  it  sort 
o'  way  consoles  Americans  when  foreigners  lose 
more  than  they  do.  I  haven't  lost  all  business 
sense  yet,  I  reckon.  Any  way  I  feel  certain  that 
if  the  place  burnt  down  I'd  get  every  cent  of  the 
insurance  money.  An'  think  what  that  would  do, 
Dave;  'twould  set  us  all  O.  K.  again.  A  million. 
I  wish  the  store  would  catch  fire  an'  burn  right  out. 
I'd  give  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  get  rid 
of  all  that  stock — an'  be  glad  to  do  it."  Here 
Mr.  Boulger  paused  significantly  as  if  inviting  an 
answer.  But  Tr^^on  didn't  speak,  couldn't  speak 
Indeed,  though  it  was  manifest  that  he  had  fully 
grasped  his  principal's  meaning. 

Tryon's  parentage  and  training  had  been  pecu- 
liar. He  had  never  known  his  father,  who  had  died 
when  he  was  still  a  young  child.  He  had  been 
brought  up  entirely  by  his  mother,  and  a  better 
nurture  in  some  respects  no  boy  ever  enjoyed;  for 
Mrs.  Tryon  w^as  one  of  those  rare  persons  whose 
good  qualities  inspire  affectionate  admiration.  Be- 
fore her  marriage  she  had  been  a  schoolmistress 

94 


Frank  Harris 

in  Hanley,  Vermont,  and  when  her  husband  died, 
a  few  years  after  their  emigration  to  Missouri,  she 
returned  to  her  old  occupation  with  an  eagerness 
that  testified  eloquently  to  the  trials  of  her  mar- 
ried life.  Of  these  she  never  spoke,  even  to  her 
son.  She  talked  to  Dave  of  his  father's  brains 
and  quickness;  but  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  fits  of  drunkenness  that  had  turned  her  life 
into  a  martyrdom  of  shame.  Her  energy  and  op- 
timism made  her  school-work  enjoyable  to  her,  but, 
curiously  enough,  she  attributed  her  success  as  a 
teacher,  not  to  her  moral  qualities,  not  to  the  sound 
judgment,  amiability,  and  firmness  which  she  pos- 
sessed in  an  eminent  degree,  but  to  her  intelligence. 
She  had  always  been  "  smart  and  spry,"  she 
thought  proudly,  and  it  was  perhaps  the  cruellest 
disappointment  of  her  life  to  find  that  her  son 
Dave  was  not  "  smart."  She  had,  however,  en- 
dowed him  with  not  a  little  of  her  own  strength 
of  character,  and  when  he  was  about  thirteen,  he 
found  with  surprise  that  he  was  gradually  out- 
stripping boys  whom  for  years  he  had  regarded 
as  cleverer  than  himself.  This  consciousness 
brought  about  a  revulsion  in  his  nature;  stubborn 
humility  gave  place  to  eager  pride,  and  under  tlie 
impulse  of  this  new  feeling,  he  redoubled  his  exer- 
tions at  a  time  when  most  of  his  school- fellows, 
quickening  with  the  passions  and  hopes  of  ap- 
proaching manhood,  began  to  lose  interest  in  the 
routine  of  lessons.  It  was  one  of  the  sweetest 
moments  in  his  life  when  his  mother  declared  with 
glad  tears  that  he  had  completely  outgrown  her  as- 
sistance.   About  this  time,  on  the  very  threshold  of 

95 


Profit  and  Loss 

youth,  Dave  met  Miss  Georgie  Boulger.  She  en- 
tered the  high-school  as  a  girl  of  fourteen,  when 
he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  it  at  sixteen,  with 
the  reputation  of  having  easily  surpassed  all  his 
competitors.  But  he  had  never  spoken  first  to  a 
girl  in  his  life,  and  it  never  entered  his  head  to 
speak  to  Miss  Georgie  Boulger  who  wore  a  fur 
cloak,  and  was  accompanied  to  and  from  school 
hy  a  negro  servant.  It  was  not  her  social  supe- 
riority, however,  which  won  Tryon,  although  un- 
doubtedly it  attracted  him,  but  Georgia's  aplomb 
and  talkativeness  and,  above  all,  her  kindness  to 
him.  She  spoke  to  him  first  about  a  difficulty  in 
a  lesson,  and  seemed  grateful  for  the  help  which 
he  bashfully  offered.  The  pair  soon  became  fast 
friends.  Miss  Georgie's  girlish  vanity  was  grati- 
fied by  her  conquest.  The  strength  of  Tryon's 
character,  his  pride  and  gratitude,  were  all  en- 
listed on  the  side  of  his  affection.  He  no  more  let 
his  thoughts  wander  from  the  young  girl  than  he 
would  have  dreamed  of  giving  up  a  problem  un- 
solved. Success,  he  had  found  out,  came  by  perse- 
verance, and,  as  usual,  the  effort  required  for  suc- 
cess— all  the  sacrifices  it  demanded — serv^ed  to 
increase  his  desire.  When  his  mother,  delighted 
with  his  steadiness  and  boyish  triumphs,  pressed 
him  to  continue  his  studies,  and  go  to  the  univer- 
sity, he  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He'd  try  to  get  a 
place  in  Boulger's  store;  she  had  worked  long 
enough  for  him;  he  wanted  to  help  her  now;  and 
at  last  the  mother,  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  de- 
votion which  she  had  given,  but  never  expected  to 
receive,  yielded. 


Frank  Harris 

Tryon  took  up  his  work  in  the  store  as  he  had 
studied  in  school,  with  the  difference  that  now  he 
made  Hght  of  difficulties  which  he  felt  sure  of  his 
own  power  to  overcome.  In  a  very  few  months 
Mr.  Boulger  learned  to  appreciate  his  assistant 
cashier,  who  certainly  knew  more  about  the  stock 
and  business  than  anyone  else  in  the  place.  And 
when  three  or  four  years  later,  his  chief  cashier 
and  manager,  Mr.  Curtis,  died  suddenly,  Mr.  Boul- 
ger at  once  offered  his  place  to  Tryon,  with  a  salary 
of  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month.  But  when 
he  found  that  this  advancement  only  intensified  his 
young  cashier's  energy  and  devotion,  instead  of 
further  increasing  his  salary  he  began  to  treat  him 
with  a  great  show  of  kindness,  and  at  last  got  into 
the  habit  of  frequently  inviting  him  to  come  out 
to  his  house  and  spend  the  night.  There  Tryon 
renewed  acquaintance  with  Miss  Georgie,  who  re- 
sponded to  his  advances  with  the  old  kindliness 
and  laughing  good  temper,  touched  to  a  keener 
issue  by  a  certain  maidenly  sense  of  what  court- 
ship meant.  Tryon  had  vastly  improved  in  man- 
ner and  bearing  in  the  five  years  which  had  passed 
since  he  left  school,  and  though  he  was  not  fully 
conscious  of  this,  or  of  the  natural  effect  upon  a 
girl's  nature  of  an  assured  and  resolute  self-pos- 
session, Miss  Georgie  noted  and  admired  the 
change.  Tryon  felt  simply  that  his  perseverance 
was  again  meeting  with  its  reward ;  he  had  but  to 
work  he  thought  and  he'd  reach  this  goal,  too, 
when  the  news  came  that  the  Boulger  girls  with 
their  mother  were  going  for  a  trip  to  Europe. 
Then  for  the  first  time  since  his  boyhood  he 
97 


Profit  and  Loss 

realised  the  full  bitterness  of  failure,  intensified 
in  this  case  by  the  hopes  of  success  which  he  had 
cherished.  But  with  the  years  his  character  had 
grown  in  strength,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  said 
farewell  he  turned  again  to  his  work  with  renewed 
vigour.  Hadn't  Georgie,  in  reply  to  his  expressed 
fear  that  in  Europe  she'd  forget  old  friends, 
laughed  up  in  his  face  with  the  words,  "  Anyway, 
I  won't  forget  you,  Mr.  Try  on  "  ?  That  was  hope 
enough  for  his  persistent  and  steadfast  nature. 
And  when  the  trip  of  six  months  lengthened  to  a 
year,  and  when  the  year  became  two,  his  hopes 
grew  with  his  own  growth  in  self-confidence.  The 
fact  was  always  there  that  Miss  Georgie  was  still 
unmarried,  and  that  encouraged  him. 

In  the  years  which  Tryon  had  passed  in  Boul- 
ger's,  there  had  taken  place  that  change  in  the 
business  which  has  already  been  noticed.  Natur- 
ally enough  Tryon  was  the  first  to  feel  the  keener 
competition,  and  to  realise  the  necessity  of  meeting 
it  by  increased  exertions.  But  here  he  found  him- 
self thwarted  by  his  chief.  The  influence  which 
each  of  these  men  exercised  upon  the  other  was 
anything  but  happy.  Just  at  the  time  when  Mr. 
Boulger  began  to  feel  that  he  deserved  rest.  Try- 
on's  energy  and  ability  rendered  it  unnecessary  for 
him  to  occupy  himself  actively  in  the  store.  Mr. 
Boulger,  too,  had  found  that  Tryon  knew  more 
about  the  business  than  he  did,  and  this  conscious- 
ness, while  giving  him  freedom,  irritated  his  rest- 
less vanity.  When  Trj^on  came  to  him  with  sug- 
gestions he  assented  to  them  with  difficulty,  even 
when  he  understood  their  value  and  importance, 

98 


Frank  Harris 

but  whenever  he  could,  without  manifestly  injuring 
the  business,  he  waved  the  young  man's  proposals 
loftily,  or  even  contemptuously  aside.  Tryon,  he 
felt,  was  inchned  "  to  play  boss."  His  prolonged 
absence  from  business  made  it  impossible  for  Mr. 
Boulger  to  understand  the  changing  conditions  of 
trade,  and  so  it  came  about  that  while  unable  him- 
self to  make  head  against  his  new  competitors,  he 
wouldn't  allow  Tryon  to  do  his  best  to  stem  the 
tide.  The  business  went  from  bad  to  worse.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  describe  Tryon's  continual, 
resolute  efforts  to  constrain  fortune.  All  was  in 
vain;  Mr.  Boulger's  jealousy  of  him  foiled  his  best 
plans.  Still  what  he  could  do  he  did,  and  at 
length,  to  brighten  his  almost  hopeless  labour, 
came  the  news  that  Mrs.  Boulger  and  her  daugh- 
ters had  returned  home.  But  weeks  passed,  and 
still  his  employer  didn't  invite  him  to  his  house, 
and  so  the  temptation  came  to  Tryon  at  a  moment 
when  he  was  cast  down  in  spirit  by  the  fear  that 
his  efforts  to  better  the  business  had  lost  him  Mr. 
Boulger's  liking,  and  with  it  all  chance  of  win- 
ning his  daughter,  Georgie. 

If  Mr.  Boulger  had  been  gifted  with  omni- 
science he  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  fitter  moment 
for  his  proposal.  And  yet  when  he  spoke  Tryon 
kept  silent.  The  plan  suggested  by  his  chief 
shocked  him.  His  first  movement  was  one  of  in- 
stinctive, passionate  recoil.  But  he  had  laboured 
incessantly,  with  all  nerves  strung,  for  years,  in 
order  to  bring  himself  nearer  to  Georgie;  and  he 
curbed  his  first  impulse  of  indignation,  fearing 
that  if  he  gave  way  to  it,  his  path  to  her  would 

99 


Profit  and  Loss 

be  blocked  for  ever.  And  once  his  honest  instincts 
were  held  in  silence,  the  issue  of  the  struggle  was 
not  doubtful.  If  it  is  true  that  one's  actions  grad- 
ually change  the  character,  it  is  also  true  that 
thoughts  and  desires  long  persisted  in,  modify  the 
texture  of  the  mind.  From  childhood  David 
Tryon  had  been  trained  to  think  chiefly  of  success. 
The  triumphs  of  successful  endeavour  had  hitherto 
been  his  chief  pleasures ;  how  was  he  now  to  give 
up  all  that  was  delightful  to  him  in  life  when  he 
had  never  so  much  as  contemplated  the  possibility 
of  such  renunciation.'^  Having  conquered  the  first 
movement  of  revolt,  the  intoxication  of  an  imme- 
diate triumph  overpowered  him.  He  did  not  dwell 
long  upon  the  condition ;  he  had  been  trained  in  a 
school  of  life  which  judges  by  results,  and  is  little 
scrupulous  as  to  means.  He  could  not  help  feel- 
ing that  an  opportunity  now  presented  itself  to 
him  which  might  never  come  again,  an  opportunity 
which  opened  a  broad  road  to  the  object  of  his 
desires.  It  was  not  the  money-bribe  which  tempted 
him  as  much  as  the  escape  from  a  harassed  and 
fettered  activity  into  a  wide  field  of  free  effort, 
and — Georgie.     Yet — 

While  Tryon  stood  to  all  appearance  impassive 
and  thoughtful  Mr.  Boulger  grew  impatient.  He 
felt  that  he  had  gone  too  far  to  recede;  he  must 
go  on  and  take  the  risk  of  refusal.  Tryon's  si- 
lence must  mean  consent.  Besides,  his  position 
was  desperate  and  this  last  throw,  even  if  it  failed, 
would  leave  him  no  worse  off  than  he  had  been  be- 
fore speaking.  No  one,  he  thought,  would  beheve 
Tryon's  word  against  his.  But  evidently  he  must 
100 


Frank  Harris 

bid  higher — that  was  plain.     So  he  began  again 
in  a  strained  voice : 

"  Dave,  you  see  I  trust  you,  and  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  or  say  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand ain't  to  be  won  every  day.  What  do  you 
say  ? "  Then  impatience  mastered  him,  and  he 
added, 

"Will  you  do  it?  That's  the  point.  You 
ain't  afraid,  I  know,  and  the  risk  ain't  anythin', 
but  will  you?  " 

The  words,  the  manner,  the  impatient  eagerness 
of  the  voice  recalled  Tryon's  business  wits.  Often 
in  his  school  days  his  slowness  in  grasping  the  full 
import  of  a  question  had  stood  him  in  good  stead, 
and  as  the  slowness  changed  to  quickness  of  appre- 
hension by  dint  of  effort  and  concentrated  atten- 
tion, he  had  made  it  a  habit  to  think  carefully  be- 
fore he  spoke,  having  again  and  again  realised  the 
advantages  of  second  thoughts.  Accordingly, 
though  his  heart  was  beating  fast  and  hard,  he  held 
the  question  before  him  and  forced  himself  to  con- 
sider it  in  all  its  bearings,  understanding  that  his 
silence  had  already  induced  Mr.  Boulger  to  in- 
crease his  offer  and  that  to  take  time  might  well 
serve  him  in  more  ways  than  one.  Besides,  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  hated  the  proposal.  Was 
there  no  other  way?  Yet  he  must  not  offend 
Georgie's  father.     If  only — 

"  If  you'd  renew  that  bill  of  Stewart's  for  thirty 
days  and  give  me  a  free  hand  here,  we  could  have 
a  clearance  sale  that  would  meet  the  bill  and  give 
us  money  to  go  on  with.  This  store's  a  fortune. 
The  other  thing's  foolish." 
101 


Profit  and  Loss 

"  The  bill  has  been  renewed  twice  and  they  won't 
renew  it  again,  and  the  bank  won't  take  it  up — I'm 
in  debt  to  the  bank.  Dave,  there's  no  other  way 
out — not  one.  Will  you  take  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars  and  set  me  on  my  feet  again — 
that's  the  question  ?  " 

"  I'd  rather  work  and  wait.     Crime — " 

"  Oh,  pshaw ! "  And  Mr.  Boulger  laughed 
noisily  to  conceal  his  agitation.  "  There  ain't  no 
risk.  With  your  head,  Dave,  one  don't  get 
caught,  and  a  man  can  work  and  wait  a  long  time 
before  he  gets  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars.    You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  The  risk's  there  and  I  hate  it ;  'tisn't  needed. 
Besides,  your  promise — " 

"  Why,  Dave,  I  guess  you  can  trust  me — I 
don't  go  back  on  my  word,  you  know  that.  I've 
shown  you,  I  reckon,  that  I  like  you  and  think  a 
heap  of  you.  Of  course  I'd  pay  what  I  say  I 
would."  Mr.  Boulger  spoke  wath  the  accents  of 
an  almost  affectionate  reproach.  He  was  evi- 
dently feverishly  anxious. 

"  Do  you  mean  a  promissory  note — three  months 
after  date?" 

"  Dave,  I  can't  do  that.  You  might  die  or — 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  make  you  man- 
ager right  off  and  give  you  five  thousand  a  year 
and  an  engagement  for  five  years  certain.  Then 
if  I  got  the  insurance  money  and  didn't  want  to 
pay  you,  you'd  have  a  primd-facie  case  against 
me.  The  largeness  of  the  salary  would  testify 
against  me — will  that  do  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  sue  you  without  confessing." 
103 


Frank  Harris 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Boulger, 
exasperated  by  the  reasonableness  of  the  objection 
and  intensely  desirous,  as  only  a  weak  nature  is, 
to  have  the  matter  settled  without  further  sus- 
pense. 

"  I  can't  see  any  way  but  a  promissory  note.  It 
might  be  deposited  with  some  third  person  who 
would  keep  it  until  we  both  asked  him  to  return 
it." 

"  No.  I  can't  do  that.  Why  should  you  and  I, 
Dave,  give  ourselves  into  the  power  of  any  third 
party.  I'll  make  you  manager  at  once  and  bind 
the  agreement  as  I  said,  but  the  note's  foolish. 
You  can  surely  trust  me .?  " 

Try  on  knew  INIr.  Boulger  well  enough  to  know 
that  when  pressed  too  far  he  was  apt  to  become 
stupidly  obstinate.  After  a  short  pause  for 
thought  he  began: 

"  The  risk's  great ;  the  store  mightn't  be  burned 
out ;  the  fire  brigade's  well  organised ;  but  what  I 
undertake  to  do,  shall  be  done  as  well  as  I  can  do 
it.  Yet  I  must  think  of  myself,  too.  Do  you 
mind,"  and  here  he  looked  Mr.  Boulger  in  the 
face,  "  giving  that  note  to  Miss  Georgie  to  keep.? 
I  guess  you  can  trust  her."  In  spite  of  himself 
a  light  as  of  comprehension  and  satisfaction  came 
over  the  upper  part  of  Mr.  Boulger's  countenance. 
Quickly  Tryon  went  on :  "  You  might  take  me  out 
with  you  some  evening.  If  she  tells  me  she'll  keep 
the  paper  for  two  months  and  then  give  it  to  me 
or  open  it  herself  before  us,  and  decide  between 
us,  I  shall  be  content." 

"  If  you  care  for  Georgie,"  broke  in  Mr.  Boul- 
103 


Profit  and  Loss 

ger,  joyously,  "the  matter's  settled.  Georgie's 
good ;  she'll  not  go  back  on  either  of  us,  and  I  had 
reckoned  anyway  on  glvin'  her  nearly  as  much 
when  she  married." 

"Yes,"  answered  Tryon,  "I  love  her,  or  else 
I'd  never  think  of  doing  what  you  want." 

"  Pshaw,  man! "  Mr.  Boulger  said  loudly,  "  the 
risk  ain't  w^orth  considerin'.  Everything'll  turn 
out  right  as  I  always  felt  it  must.  Dave,  I'm  real 
glad.  There's  no  one  I'd  rather  have  for  a  son- 
in-law  than  you — no  one.  I'm  glad  I  came  in  this 
evenin'.  Now  I  can  go  home  and  sleep  with  my 
mind  at  rest.  But  'twas  a  near  thing;  that  bill 
of  Stewart's  '11  fall  due  in  six  weeks,  and  my  note 
at  the  bank,  too.  I  guess  we'll  be  able  to  pay 
them,  eh,  Dave?  " 

The  loud  satisfaction,  the  inconsequent  speech, 
grated  upon  Tryon's  nerves.  Oppressed  by 
doubts  he  could  not  still,  he  answered  coldly : 

"  Yes,  perhaps  you  will." 

The  words  and  voice  seemed  to  Mr.  Boulger  to 
indicate  doubt  if  not  regret.  Accordingly  he 
hastened  to  clinch  the  bargain  without  delay,  and 
to  give  vent  to  his  relief  and  joy  in  what  seemed 
to  him  a  generous  way.  Putting  his  arm  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder,  he  exclaimed,  with  kindly 
eagerness : 

"  But  I  was  f  orgettin' !  The  least  I  can  do  is 
to  make  my  son-in-law  manager  right  off,  eh, 
Dave?  I  can  do  that  right  now.  An'  it'll  show 
you  that  I'm  willin'  to  keep  my  word." 

Tryon  protested  sincerely,  "  'twas  time  enough 
for  that;  a  day  or  two  wouldn't  matter;  'twould 
104 


Frank  Harris 

be  better  to  sleep  on  it," — and  so  forth.  His  in- 
heritance of  honest  instincts  had  begun  to  stir  in 
him  again,  and  made  him  hesitate  to  engage  him- 
self. But  Mr.  Boulger  wouldn't  be  denied.  Try- 
on's  protestations  only  excited  him  to  immediate 
action ;  he  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  wrote  the  ap- 
pointment. As  he  dried  the  ink  the  thought  came 
to  him  that  he  was  giving  something  for  nothing ; 
but  he  consoled  himself  by  calling  to  mind  the 
powers  employers  possessed  to  rid  themselves  of 
cashiers,  or  even  managers,  who  didn't  please  them. 
Besides,  Tryon  was  worth  the  money  in  any  house 
of  business,  and  as  a  son-in-law  he'd  be  more  easily 
dealt  with; — Mr.  Boulger's  fears  prevented  him 
from  thinking  clearly.  Folding  the  paper  care- 
fully he  handed  it  to  Tryon. 

"  There,  Dave,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  im- 
pressively, "  that's  a  long  step  towards  fortune. 
I  guess  managers  often  turn  into  partners.  An' 
I  don't  wish  for  a  better  partner  than  you.  I'll 
get  that  other  thing  written  right  soon,  and  I'll 
speak  to  Mrs.  Boulger  to-night.  Then  you  can 
come  out  whenever  you  like."  With  the  feeling 
that  he  had  done  his  best,  and  might  lose  all  influ- 
ence over  his  seemingly  impassive  listener  if  he 
continued,  he  added  shortly — 

"Now,  I  guess,  I'll  have  to  be  goin'.  Good 
night,  Dave,"  and  left  the  store.  But  before  he 
had  walked  a  hundred  yards  towards  the  livery- 
stable  where  he  had  "  put  up "  his  horses  and 
buggy,  he  had  begun,  not  only  to  regret  his  de- 
cision, but  to  resolve  to  modify  it.  His  thoughts 
ran  thus: 

105 


profit  and  Loss 

"  He's  smart,  I  guess,  very  smart.  I  didn't  in- 
tend to  make  him  manager  or  to  offer  more  than 
a  hundred  thousand.  I  hadn't  no  need  to ;  he's  in 
love  with  Georgie ;  he'd  have  done  it  for  her,  per- 
haps. Why,  he  said  so.  He  did !  I  don't  mind 
the  hundred  thousand,  though  it's  too  much — far 
too  much.  Any  young  man  would  have  done  it 
for  fifty.  I  was  too  hasty,  though  I  was  in  a  real 
tight  place.  And  then,  as  manager  he'll  want  to 
do  every  thin'.  I'll  have  to  give  way  before — and 
afterwards  it'll  be  hard  to  alter.  I  was  too  hasty, 
I  was,  and  too  generous.  That's  always  been  my 
fault — generosity.  I  like  to  do  things  largely; 
I  hate  meanness.  And  then  I  give  myself  away 
every  time."  But  as  this  course  of  self-reproach 
recalled  unpleasant  memories,  Mr.  Boulger  broke 
it  off: 

"What's  to  be  done  now?  Of  course,  I  want 
to  treat  him  fairly, — I  guess  I'll  draw  that  note 
and  leave  the  sum  blank.  Then  I'll  say,  '  See  here, 
Dave,  you  belong  to  us  now,  and  I've  two  other 
girls ;  I  reckon  I'll  fill  this  in  for  a  hundred  thou- 
sand, eh?'  He  can't  object — put  in  that  way. 
He  won't :  he  wants  Georgie.  He'll  have  seen  her 
then  and  talked  to  her.  I  guess  it'll  be  all  right. 
He'll  do  it :  there's  no  fear  about  that.   .  .  . 

"  Damn  those  insurance  companies  anyway. 
They've  got  premiums  out  of  me  for  thirty  years. 
Now,  it's  my  turn.  I'm  only  getting  back  my  own 
money  from  them  after  all." 

David  Tryon  wasn't  able  to  console  himself  so 
easily,  nor  so  completely.     Brought  face  to  face 
with  fraud  and  crime,  his  deeper  nature  revolted. 
106 


Frank  Harris 

Yet  his  own  dissatisfied  conscience  forced  him  to 
think  with  bitterest  contempt  of  Mr.  Boulger. 

"  He  wouldn't  do  the  work  nor  let  me  do  it  either. 
The  vain  fool !  Always  running  about  showing 
off,  and  leaving  his  business  to  take  care  of  itself, 
and  this  is  what  it  has  come  to.  I've  to  save  him, 
and  how!  In  six  months  the  business  properly 
worked  would  bring  him  out  all  right,  but  he  goes 
and  leaves  everything  to  the  last  moment,  and  then, 
puts  it  all  on  to  me." 

This  train  of  thought,  however,  seemed  to  Tryon 
unprofitable ;  his  understanding  of  his  own  resolu- 
tion forced  him  to  renounce  the  pleasure  of  con- 
demning his  master.  "  I  guess  he  only  acted  ac- 
cording to  his  nature — and  now  I've  to  go  right 
on." 

Characteristically  he  thought  first  of  what  he 
ought  to  do,  the  steps  which  should  be  taken. 
Forethought  would  avert  suspicion.  In  outline  at 
least  the  enterprise  was  soon  clear  to  him.  He 
trusted  much  to  time  and  careful  deliberation;  he 
intended  to  consider  the  whole  scheme  again  and 
again  before  proceeding  to  carry  it  into  execution. 
IMeanwhile  he  wouldn't  delay  any  needful  prepara- 
tion. Having  decided  so  much,  he  allowed  his 
thoughts  to  wander.  It  was  characteristic  of  his 
nature  that  they  turned  first  to  his  mother,  and 
to  the  joy  she  would  feel  in  his  success.  Tryon 
was  neither  passionate  nor  very  affectionate,  but 
his  affections  were  of  those  which  grow  with  cus- 
tom and  assoglation ;  and  the  isolation  of  the  life 
he  had  led  with  his  widowed  mother  made  him  con- 
nect her  with  himself  in  an  intimate  community 
lOT 


Profit  and  Loss 

of  feeling  and  interest.  It  irritated  him,  there- 
fore, to  realise  all  at  once  that  he  could  take  no 
pleasure  in  his  mother's  delight ;  he  felt  distinctly 
that  she  wouldn't  be  glad  if  she  knew  all,  and  the 
sincerity  in  him  prevented  him  from  sharing  even 
in  anticipation  in  her  joy. 

As  he  put  the  agreement  In  his  pocket,  turned 
out  the  lamp,  and  set  forth  for  home.  It  came  to 
him  suddenly  that  if  his  mother's  suspicions  were 
aroused,  If  the  rapidity  of  his  rise  led  her  to  fear, 
however  vaguely,  anything  resembling  the  truth, 
she  would  certainly  oppose  his  design  with  all  her 
strength.  For  the  first  time  there  was  a  gulf  be- 
tween them.  But  instead  of  setting  himself  to 
think  of  the  meaning  and  cause  of  this  separation 
he  simply  resolved  to  pretend  to  be  frank  and  de- 
ceive her.  His  mind  was  made  up.  It  was  better 
that  she  should  know  nothing.  Yet  as  he  reached 
the  house  he  felt  intensely  uncomfortable.  Deceit 
was  painful  to  him.  He  resolved  to  say  as  little 
as  possible. 

According  to  her  invariable  custom,  his  mother 
was  waiting  up  for  him.  When  he  spoke  to  her  of 
getting  a  larger  house  and  engaging  a  "  help," 
and  showed  her  the  agreement,  attributing  his  ad- 
vancement to  the  way  he  had  worked  In  getting  out 
the  balance-sheet,  she  seemed  In  no  way  surprised, 
though  the  sudden  delight  brought  quick  tears 
to  her  eyes.  Her  boy  thought  of  her  first  of  all. 
This  was  perhaps  the  heart  of  her  joy,  and  yet 
she  gave  no  expression  to  it  In  words.  Even  when 
most  deeply  moved,  men  and  women  speak  gener- 
ally from  the  ruffled  surface  of  their  souls.  The 
108 


Frank  Harris 

tranquil  depths  of  perfect  honesty  and  self-abne- 
gation in  this  mother-heart  could  not  come  easily 
to  expression. 

"  It  makes  me  very  happy  for  you,  Dave,"  she 
said,  trying  to  smile,  "  but  you  deserve  it  all ; 
you've  worked  night  and  da}^ ;  all  last  night  you 
were  writing.  Oh,  I  heard  you.  A  mother  doesn't 
sleep  when  her  son's  waking.  .  .  .  I've  got  more 
happiness  through  you  than  I  ever  expected  in 
this  world.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  all  my  prayers 
had  been  answered.  God's  very  good  to  me, 
Dave."  And  through  her  tears  she  added,  with  a 
deprecating  smile,  "  To  think  I  used  to  be  afraid 
you  weren't  smart !  " 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Tryon  felt  that  the  chief 
ordeal  was  passed;  he  felt,  too,  somewhat  to  his 
surprise,  that  he  did  enjoy  his  mother's  deep  hap- 
piness, though  he  knew  he  had  no  right  to  enjoy 
it.  Success,  he  understood,  might  bring  him  more 
even  than  assured  position  and  wealth;  it  might 
bring  content.  After  a  talk,  which  was  cut  short 
by  his  mother  insisting  that  he  must  go  to  bed 
and  get  a  good  rest,  Tryon  went  to  his  room  to 
think  of  Georgie.  He  felt  certain  that  under  the 
present  circumstances  she  wouldn't  refuse  him. 
And  in  his  self-controlled  nature,  desires  awoke 
alien  to  his  habit  and  coloured  the  picture  his 
fancy  painted  of  a  future  passed  between  his 
mother  and  his  wife. 

Long  after  her  son  had  gone  to  sleep  the  mother 
sat  nursing  her  delight,  following  it  into  all  its 
possibilities.  What  wouldn't  her  Dave  do  and  be- 
come? A  member  of  Congress,  perhaps,  loved  and 
109 


Profit  and  Loss 

honoured  by  all,  as  he  deserved.  Woman-like  she 
had  made  an  Idol  of  him  ever  since  his  school-boy 
triumphs ;  and  to  her  larger,  more  expansive,  and 
more  generous  nature  his  cool  self-restraint  and 
steady  purpose  seemed  the  ideal  of  noble  man- 
hood. And  mingled  with  her  admiration  of  his 
strength  and  resolution,  was  an  intense  tingling 
gratitude  for  his  affection.  He  had  thought  first 
of  her  and  her  wellbeing.  At  the  remembrance  of 
his  words  quick,  sweet  tears  of  pleasure  came  again 
to  her  eyes.  A  sense  of  life's  compensations  pene- 
trated her  as  she  thought  of  her  husband  and  son 
together.  Yet  she  was  superstitiously  afraid  to 
admit  even  to  herself  what  she  felt  to  be  the  fact, 
that  she  was  blessed  in  her  son  beyond  her  own 
deserts,  beyond  all  previous  suffering.  Great  joy, 
she  felt,  must  be  followed  by  lasting  sorrow.  She 
set  herself,  therefore,  to  wonder  when  he  would 
marry,  and  whom  he  would  choose.  No  one  in 
Kansas  City  was  at  all  worthy  of  him ;  she'd  ad- 
vise him  to  wait;  meanwhile  she'd  look  out  for 
him,  for  she  knew  exactly  the  sort  of  woman  who 
would  make  him  happy.  And  yet  not  even  the 
ideal  in  her  mind  was  worthy  of  her  son — of  Dave ! 


II 

About  a  week  after  Mr.  Boulger's  nocturnal 
visit  to  his  house  of  business,  his  wife  and  his  three 
unmarried  daughters  were  assembled  in  the  draw- 
ing-room of  their  country  residence,  awaiting  his 
arrival,  and  that  of  the  manager,  Mr,  Tryon, 
110 


Frank  Harris 

whom,  to  their  surprise,  Mr.  Boulger  seemed  re- 
solved to  honour.  A  word  or  two  about  Mrs. 
Boulger  and  her  daughters  may  not  be  out  of 
place  here. 

In  person  Mrs.  Boulger  was  thin  and  dry,  but 
in  spite  of  sallow  complexion  and  round  black  eyes  ' 
the  sharp-featured  face  and  tall  figure  had  a  cer- 
tain dignity.  She  belonged,  as  she  was  pleased  to 
inform  everyone,  to  an  old  Southern  family — a 
family,  she  used  to  add,  that  had  been  slave-hold- 
ers "  for  generations."  In  truth,  the  little  plan- 
tation of  the  Carters  had  been  bought  by  the 
grandfather,  but  as  she  advanced  in  life,  and  her 
position  improved,  Mrs.  Boulger's  ancestors  grew 
in  number  and  legendary  importance.  Pride  was 
her  dominant  quality  and,  in  process  of  time,  it 
had  swollen  to  such  exaggeration  that  it  bred  vir- 
tues in  her,  foreign  to  her  nature.  Just  as  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  induce  her  to  do  anything 
which  seemed  to  her  unworthy  of  a  great  position, 
so  nothing  would  prevent  her  doing  what  she 
thought  her  position  demanded.  She  lived,  there- 
fore, at  the  rate  which  her  ever-increasing  knowl- 
edge of  luxuries  required,  careless  of  the  fact  that 
in  the  last  years  she  had  spent  more  than  her  hus- 
band could  earn. 

The  eldest  daughter,  Ada,  resembled  her  mother 
save  that  she  was  good-looking,  well-educated  and 
accepted  in  faith  her  mother's  imaginary  descent 
and  hereditary  splendour.  She  was  selfish,  as  her 
mother  was,  unconsciously  and  intensely,  with  a 
complacent  self-approval  that  her  mother  could 
hardly  reach.  The  unity  of  type  of  Mrs.  Boulger 
111 


Profit  and  Loss 

and  Ada  had  had  certain  curious  effects  upon  the 
two  younger  girls. 

Ivy,  the  youngest,  seemed  in  many  ways  to  take 
after  her  father.  In  person  she  was  an  inferior 
copy — small  and  slight  of  figure,  with  a  doll's 
face.  The  self-satisfied  pride  of  her  mother  and 
eldest  sister  had  intensified  and  developed  her  ego- 
tism to  deliberate  and  conscious  purpose.  Her 
emulative  instincts  and  her  desire  to  please  had  led 
her  to  cultivate  her  manners,  which  would  have 
been  perfect  had  she  been  able  to  comprehend  any 
nature  other  than  her  own.  Her  ruthless  self- 
seeking  and  obstinacy  had  won  the  unwilling  re- 
spect even  of  her  mother,  and  she  was  undoubtedly 
her  father's  favourite. 

Georgie,  on  the  other  hand,  was  by  nature  hon- 
est, frank  and  kindly.  She  tried  to  dwell  on  the 
good  qualities  of  her  mother  and  sisters,  but  un- 
known to  herself  their  egotism  brought  out  and 
developed  the  unselfishness  in  her.  She  found  it 
easy  to  yield  to  the  demands  they  were  continually 
making  on  her  good-nature ;  though  sometimes  she 
rendered  service  with  a  certain  contempt.  For 
Georgie  was  not  a  saint  to  whom  self-sacrifice  was 
a  pleasure,  but  a  sound-hearted  girl  with  a  strong 
craving  for  affection.  To  her  alone  the  return  to 
Kansas  City  was  a  source  of  satisfaction.  She 
looked  forward  hopefully  and  with  a  confused  yet 
eager  anticipation  of  life's  joy  and  purpose  to  the 
meeting  with  Tryon,  whom  she  had  liked  and 
trusted  from  the  first.  She  thought  of  herself 
and  even  of  her  person  with  reasonable  pleasure. 
She  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  was  not  so  tall 
113 


Frank  Harris 

or  elegant  as  Ada,  but  she  was  stronger  and  had 
better  health.  Again  and  again,  too,  she  had 
noticed  that  if  men  were  first  attracted  by  Ada's 
good  looks  and  stateliness  or  by  Ivy's  charming 
manners  and  affectation  of  intense  interest,  the 
majority  of  them  came  gradually  to  pay  her  at- 
tentions which,  if  not  passionate,  were,  at  least, 
constant  and  sincere.  She  had,  accordingly,  a  pre- 
monition that  life  would  afford  her  what  she  most 
desired,  and  therewith  she  was  content.  If  her 
outlook  was  narrow  it  was  clear.  She  was  truth- 
ful and  trustworthy,  as  are  the  unimaginative. 
Neither  her  father  nor  Tryon  had  reason  to  fear 
betrayal  from  her;  she  held  to  the  plain  rules  of 
conduct  and  liked  the  straight  lines  cut  by  Ameri- 
can roads  and  streets.  As  soon  as  her  father  had 
spoken  of  Tryon,  even  before  he  mentioned  his 
promotion  to  the  post  of  manager  she  had  divined 
that  her  future  was  intimately  concerned.  And 
this  gratified  not  only  the  better  part  of  her  na- 
ture but  also  a  certain  vanity.  She  had  always 
wished  to  be  married  before  either  of  her  sisters; 
she  felt  that  she  had  more  affection  to  give  than 
they  possessed,  and  Ivy's  vanity  and  selfishness 
and  Ada's  complacent  pride  seemed  to  her  to  ren- 
der them  distinctly  her  inferiors. 

In  spite  of  the  unusual  enthusiasm  with  which 
Mr.  Boulger  spoke  of  Tryon,  neither  Mrs.  Boulger 
nor  Ada  was  at  all  inclined  to  attribute  much 
importance  to  his  visit.  They  knew  themselves  to 
be  far  above  clerkdom.  But  Ivy  noticed  at  once 
that  her  father  seemed  to  speak  at  Georgia  in  par- 
ticular, and  it  was  easy  for  her  to  interpret  her 
113 


Profit  and  Loss 

favourite  sister's  manner.  When  she  entered  the 
drawing-room  she  saw  that  Georgie,  like  herself, 
had  dressed  with  more  than  ordinary  care.  A  cer- 
tain feminine  jealousy  in  her  came  at  once  to 
speech,  though  she  tried  to  modify  the  bitterness 
of  her  words  because  it  was  no  part  of  her  policy 
to  offend  the  sister  who  was  continually  doing  her 
kindnesses,  and  whom  she  liked  as  much  as  she 
could  like  any  one. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  said  carelessly,  "  it's  no  use 
for  you  and  me  to  get  ourselves  up  for  Mr.  Tryon 
w^hile  Ada's  there.  We  haven't  a  chance  with  her. 
After  all,  I  don't  mind.  I  don't  want  papa's  man- 
ager. But  it's  a  pity  you're  not  looking  your 
best  to-day — you've  too  much  colour." 

Georgie  felt  the  keenness  of  the  shaft  which, 
indeed  deepened  the  healthy  flush  of  her  cheeks, 
but  she  maintained  her  self-control,  and  after  a 
short  pause,  spoke  of  indifferent  things. 

A  few  minutes  later,  just  after  the  lights  had 
been  brought  in,  and  the  windows  closed,  Mr. 
Boulger  and  Tryon  entered  the  room.  Mrs. 
Boulger  was  polite,  and  even  pleasant  to  Tr^^on, 
as  she  always  was  to  new  acquaintances,  and  Ada 
attempted  to  appropriate  him  as  if  each  and  every 
man  must  needs  wish  to  be  at  her  feet.  Tryon, 
though  not  at  ease,  showed  to  advantage.  His 
purpose  was  so  strong  that  nothing  of  the  self- 
conscious  awkwardness  of  his  youth  was  visible, 
and  when,  after  replying  politely  to  the  elder  sis- 
ter, he  turned  to  Georgie,  she  was  astonished  by 
the  improvement  in  him.  He  was  more  manly, 
masterful  even,  she  thought,  with  a  flush  of  pleas- 
114, 


Frank  Harris 

ure,  which  gave  her  a  charming  expression  of  girl- 
ish embarrassment.  Besides,  she  really  felt  some- 
what shy.  The  fidelity  in  Tryon's  look  brought 
the  future  very  close  to  her,  and  she  was  aston- 
ished at  the  strength  of  the  feelings  he  called 
forth  in  her. 

The  evening  passed  pleasantly  enough.  Ada,  it 
is  true,  was  at  times  contemptuous ;  Ivy  made  re- 
marks which  were  significant  and  slightly  malicious, 
but  Mr.  Boulger's  unceasing  good-humour,  and 
Mrs.  Boulger's  pleasure  in  recounting  her  Euro- 
pean experiences  made  things  go  smoothly.  From 
her  conversation,  Tryon  gathered  that  Mrs.  Boul- 
ger  looked  upon  America  since  the  abolition  of 
slavery  as  a  very  poor  place ;  "  The  servants  were 
ill-taught  and  independent,"  was  a  phrase,  the 
sense  of  which  he  could  not  seize.  The  dinner 
seemed  to  him  oppressive  in  length ;  he  felt  that  it 
wasn't  right  for  people  to  drink  wine  with  their 
meals,  and  that  the  house  was  too  splendid  to  be 
comfortable.  He  told  his  mother  afterwards  that 
it  was  like  being  dressed  always  in  one's  best 
clothes.  But  Georgie's  eyes  and  words  showed 
him  that  she,  at  any  rate,  understood  and  appre- 
ciated him,  and  that  was  enough.  After  dinner, 
too,  she  arranged  matters  so  that  Tryon  could 
talk  to  her  tete-a-tete,  and  when  he  hoped  that  she 
had  kept  her  promise  not  to  forget  old  friends,  she 
replied  without  affectation  that  she  had  not  for- 
gotten him.  Her  frankness  put  him  at  his  ease, 
and  to  his  own  surprise  he  found  himself  speaking 
to  her  with  interest  of  the  business  and  the  im- 
provements he  hoped  to  effect  in  it.  The  insight 
115 


Profit  and  Loss 

and  energy  in  him  impressed  Her,  but  more  still 
the  strength  and  persistence  which  she  felt  to  be 
the  foundation  of  his  character.  Once,  at  least, 
she  caught  herself  blushing,  half  with  surprise  at 
an  incautious  phrase  which  betrayed  the  strength 
of  her  feeling  for  him.  As  he  grew  in  her  esteem 
she  showed  a  good  humour  and  enjoyment  which 
made  her  quite  pretty.  In  fine,  they  both  ap- 
peared at  their  best;  they  were  both  conscious  of 
this,  and  each  accordingly  felt  increased  sympathy 
for  the  other.  Towards  eleven  o'clock  Mr.  Boulger 
approached  them. 

"  Georgie,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  after  a  few 
careless  sentences,  "  we  both  want  you  to  come 
down  early  to-morrow  morning;  we've  something 
to  talk  over  with  you,  and  as  Dave  wants  to  go  to 
business  before  eight  o'clock,  you  should  be  down 
at  seven  to  give  him  and  me  breakfast." 

Mr.  Boulger's  tone  and  confidential  manner  were 
highly  significant.  Most  girls  would  have  felt 
somewhat  embarrassed  at  the  quick  approach  of 
the  decisive  moment,  but  Georgie  answered  quite 
naturally : 

"  All  right,  father,  I'll  be  here  at  half-past  six. 
Now  it's  time  to  go  to  bed,  I  suppose,  though, 
thanks  to  Mr.  Try  on,  the  evening  has  seemed  very 
short." 

For  some  time  after  he  reached  his  room,  Tryon 
gave  himself  up  to  thought.  He  felt  certain  that 
Georgie  cared  for  him,  and  that  she  would  consent 
to  be  his  wife.  Her  frankness  and  good  humour 
had  been  very  pleasant  to  him,  almost  as  delightful 
in  fact  as  certain  signs  of  affection  which  he  re- 
116 


Frank  Harris 

called  with  joy.  On  all  points  save  one  liis  mmd 
was  at  rest.  Her  frank  affection  had  increased 
his  confidence  in  her  to  such  an  extent  that  he  felt 
inclined  to  confide  in  her  without  reserve.  She 
deserved  complete  trust,  he  knew,  and  he  felt  that 
she  ought  to  know  beforehand  what  he  intended 
to  do.  The  influence  of  his  business  training  had 
been  so  immoral  that  he  would  have  decided  prob- 
ably to  tell  her  his  secret  had  not  his  high  opinion 
of  his  mother  restrained  him.  Perhaps  Georgie 
would  take  the  same  view  of  it  as  his  mother  would. 
Perhaps?  Certainly.  Then  there  was  nothing 
more  to  think  of;  he  would  say  nothing,  and  go 
ahead. 

Alt  ^  ^/U  4)&  JJJL 

The  next  morning  Tryon  was  in  the  breakfast- 
room  at  six  o'clock.  The  servants  were  leaving  the 
room  as  he  entered  it.  He  had  not  waited  long 
when  Georgie  came  in.  She  looked  so  bright  and 
neat;  her  blue  eyes  so  glad  and  her  complexion 
so  fresh  that  he  felt  his  senses  stir  again  in  him 
as  they  had  stirred  more  than  once  during  the 
previous  evening. 

''  Good  morning,  Mr.  Tryon.  You  are  down 
early.     Has  father  appeared  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  and  Pm  glad  he  hasn't,"  replied  Tryon 
steadily,  "  for  I've  something  to  ask  you  first,"  he 
added,  as  their  hands  met.  "  Do  you  remember," 
he  went  on,  "  how  kind  you  were  to  me  when  I  was 
with  you  at  school  ?  " 

Georgie  tried  to  meet  his  eyes  but  could  not.  It 
was  too  sudden.  Still  she  would  have  controlled 
even  this  faint  testimony  to  her  joy  and  satlsfac- 

iir 


Profit  and  Loss 

tion  had  not  a  delicious  feeling  of  pride  in  his  di- 
rectness and  a  certain  shy  longing  to  yield  herself 
completely  to  his  masterfulness  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  do  anything  save  try  by  thinking  of 
something  else  to  still  the  tumultuous  beating  of 
her  heart  while  following  his  every  word. 

"  Well,  ever  since  that  day  you  asked  me  about 
the  sum,  I've  loved  you,  and  now,  Georgie,  I  want 
to  know  whether  you  care  enough  for  me  to  be  my 
wife?" 

At  the  direct  question,  none  of  the  romantic 
imaginings  of  her  girlhood  came  into  her  head ;  on 
the  contrary,  her  previous  emotions  even  seemed  to 
leave  her.  She  regained  self-possession  at  once 
and,  looking  him  in  the  face,  she  answered, 

"  Yes." 

As  he  put  his  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her 
again  and  again,  the  tumultuous  emotions  came 
back  to  her  with  an  added  keenness  of  pleasure  in 
being  so  embraced,  which  made  it  impossible  for 
her  at  first  to  add  anything  to  the  simplicity  of  her 
avowal.  But  in  a  moment  or  two  she  disengaged 
herself.  She  felt  afraid  of  herself— afraid  lest 
these  new,  strong,  delightful  emotions  might  carry 
her  further  than  she  ought  to  go.  She  felt  shy, 
too,  and  strove  to  hide  her  shyness  under  an  af- 
fected confidence. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  with  an  added  flush  on  her 
cheeks  and  brightness  in  her  glance,  "  after  hav- 
ing crumpled  my  frock  and  loosened  my  hair, 
and  made  me  hot,  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  was  this 
the  reason  why  papa  wanted  me  to  come  down 
early.?" 

118 


Frank  Harris 

"  One  of  the  reasons,  I  think,"  said  Trjon,  smil- 
ing in  response  to  her  smile.  "  Didn't  you  guess 
it,  Georgie?  "  and  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Perhaps ;  but  do  you  know  you've  altered  a 
great  deal ;  you're  not  like  what  you  were — I  mean 
you're — older,  and  I  thought — " 

"  Then  you  did  think  of  me  sometimes, 
Georgie?  " 

The  girl  nodded  her  head  with  deep  tenderness 
in  her  eyes.  A  need  of  frank  confession  was  upon 
her,  for  her  whole  nature  opened  to  this  affection 
freely,  as  a  flower  to  the  sun's  warmth. 

"  I  just  hated  Europe  and  wanted  that  tour  to 
end,  for  I  was  lonely  often,  and  I  thought  perhaps 
you  cared  for  me,  though  I  wasn't  sure  you  did  so 
much — till  last  night.  It  is  good  to  like  some  one, 
isn't  it,  and  to  be — liked?" 

After  this  she  did  not  seek  to  free  herself,  but 
suffered  him  to  kiss  her  and  to  lead  her  to  the 
sofa.  The  talk  between  them,  made  up  of  memo- 
ries, and  the  questions  and  answers  of  a  happy 
affection,  seemed  to  have  lasted  but  a  minute  when 
Mr.  Boulger  came  into  the  room. 

"  That's  right,"  he  exclaimed  joyfully,  rubbing 
his  hands,  as  the  two  stood  up  quickly  as  he  came 
towards  them,  "  that's  right.  I  guess  you've  set- 
tled the  main  point  already."  But  the  part  of 
happy  father,  difficult  for  Mr.  Boulger  to  play 
at  any  time,  was  impossible  without  the  help  of 
even  a  word  from  either  of  the  young  people, 
and  so,  after  a  pause,  he  added  more  seriously 
and  in  almost  his  ordinary  tone :  "  Now,  Georgie, 
119 


Profit  and  Loss 

you  must  let  me  take  Dave  away  for  a  minute, 
as  we've  somethin'  to  settle  first.  We'll  be  back 
soon." 

Without  more  ado  he  led  Tryon  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, and,  taking  a  long  white  envelope  from 
his  breast-pocket  as  he  went,  he  said  hastily: 

"  Here's  the  note,  Dave.  You  see  I've  filled  in 
the  sum  as  a  hundred  thousand.  I've  other  girls, 
and — an'  that  was  my  first  proposition.  Wasn't 
it?  You  won't  mind,  I  guess;  you'll  have  ten  or 
fifteen  thousand  dollars  a  year  to  live  on,  an' 
Georgie's  a  good  girl  an'  not  extravagant,  an' 
3'ou'n  be  better  off  anyway  than  any  young  pair 
in  the  town,  an' " 

Tryon's  real  rapidity  of  judgment  stood  him  in 
good  stead  on  this  occasion.  He  felt  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  bargain  at  such  a  time,  al- 
though the  trick  was  palpable  and  irritated  him. 
He  saw  at  a  glance,  however,  that  nothing  re- 
mained for  him  but  to  accept  the  situation.  It  was 
evidence  of  his  rare  adaptability  that  he  also  re- 
solved to  humour  the  cheat.  Georgie's  father  was 
worth  conciliating. 

"  All  right,"  he  replied  slowly  but  with  a  smile. 
"  I  guess  it's  hard  to  trade  with  you  and  come  out 
even.  You're  smart.  There's  no  doubt  about 
that." 

The  smile  of  self-satisfaction  which  spread  over 
Mr.  Boulger's  face  at  what  he  accepted  as  a  pleas- 
ant truth  showed  Tryon  that  he  had  said  enough, 
so  he  broke  off,  and  after  looking  over  the  paper 
carefully,  he  folded  it  up,  and  placing  it  again  in 
the  envelope,  returned  it. 
120 


Frank  Harris 

''  That  makes  you  somethin'  like  my  partner, 
you  know,  Dave,"  said  Mr.  Boulger  conciliatlngly, 
"  and  I  mean  to  act  fair  by  you  always.  I've  ever}^ 
reason  to  now — but  I'll  be  glad  when  it's  all  over. 
When  do  you  think — but  I  guess  we'll  have  time 
to  talk  of  that  after  breakfast.     Now,  come." 

On  their  return  to  the  breakfast-room  Mr.  Boul- 
ger handed  the  envelope  to  Georgie. 

"  You're  to  keep  that,  Georgie,  for  three 
months."  (The  girl  flushed.)  "Then  you're  to 
give  it  to  Dave,  or,  if  I  object,  you're  to  open  it 
and  decide  fairly  bet'ween  us.  D'you  understand.^ 
I  guess  we  can  both  count  on  you — eh.'^" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  knitting  her  brows  and 
looking  from  her  lover  to  her  father.  "  At  the  end 
of  three  months  I'm  to  give  it  to  Mr.  Tryon,  un- 
less you  object,  but  if  jou.  do,  I'm  to  open  it  and 
decide.  It  seems  strange.  Mayn't  I  know  what's 
in  this  mysterious  envelope  ?  " 

"  Girls  mustn't  know  too  much  at  once,"  replied 
Mr.  Boulger  carelessl}^ ;  "  but  now  keep  the  paper 
safe,  and  let's  have  breakfast.  I'm  real  hungry. 
An'  I  guess  Dave  '11  be  able  to  eat  a  square  meal, 
too.     Happiness  is  a  good  sauce — eh.'^" 

The  breakfast  was  cheerful  and  pleasant.  Mr. 
Boulger  talked  incessantly  in  a  somewhat  excited 
way,  which  left  the  young  people  to  their  thoughts 
and  interchange  of  looks.  Dave  Tryon  was  more 
than  satisfied  with  his  success.  Georgie  seemed  to 
him  an  ideal  wife ;  and  the  girl  herself  would  have 
been  lost  in  her  deep  content  had  she  not  noticed 
anxiously  that  her  lover  now  and  then  seemed  very 
thoughtful. 

121 


Profit  and  Loss 


in 

The  store  was  composed  of  four  storeys,  three 
of  which  were  filled  with  goods.  The  staircase  ran 
from  close  to  Tryon's  office,  in  the  back  part  of 
the  first  floor,  towards  the  front,  and  emerged  on 
the  fourth  floor,  dividing  it  into  two  almost  equal 
halves.  Here  in  a  sort  of  attic  lived  a  German 
with  his  wife,  who,  by  way  of  rent,  took  care  of 
the  building,  sweeping  and  dusting  it  out  in  the 
mornings  and  at  night,  airing  it  in  summer,  light- 
ing the  fires  in  winter,  and  so  on.  As  soon  as 
Tryon  thought  of  getting  in  wood  he  remembered 
the  Lenzes.  He  had  always  given  Lenz  the  money 
for  the  wood  and  current  expenses,  and  he  had  now 
to  see  him  in  order,  if  possible,  to  get  Lenz  to  pro- 
pose to  buy  a  quantity  of  wood  at  once  for  cheap- 
ness' sake  and  to  store  it  beneath  the  stairway. 
This  was  easily  accomplished;  a  few  words  of 
praise  induced  the  simple  German  to  take  upon 
himself  the  honour — and  the  responsibility — of 
having  suggested  this  important  purchase.  So  far 
so  good.  But  Tryon  understood  that  if  he  tried 
to  get  the  Lenzes  to  leave  the  store  on  any  pretence 
whatever,  suspicion  would  at  once  attach  to  him. 
They  must  go  out  of  their  own  accord,  and  he 
would  have  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity 
which  chance  or  their  habits  might  offer.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  he  knew  next  to  nothing  of 
the  Lenzes  or  of  their  way  of  living.  They  did 
their  work  so  well  that  he  had  had  but  few  occa- 
sions to  speak  to  them,  and  the  contempt  which 

in 


Frank  Harris 

Americans  feel  for  all  foreigners,  and  particularly 
for  those  who  speak  with  a  foreign  accent,  had 
hindered  him  from  having  any  intercourse  with 
them.  Try  on  realised  that  it  would  never  do  to 
question  Lenz  as  to  his  habits  and  customs.  These 
he  must  learn  from  others.  So  he  began  to  fre- 
quent a  German  lager-bier  saloon  in  the  evenings 
and  talk  with  the  customers.  This  served  another 
purpose.  Tryon's  rooted  repugnance  to  fraud 
was  stirred  to  activity  chiefly  by  his  mother;  in- 
tercourse with  her  awakened  all  that  was  honest 
in  him,  and  again  and  again  led  him  to  question 
his  resolve.  And  this  was  very  painful  to  him: 
hesitation  being  intolerable  to  men  accustomed  to 
action.  Accordingly  he  soon  became  aware  that 
his  visits  to  the  lager-bier  saloon  not  only  increased 
his  knowledge  of  Germans  and  their  ways,  but  also 
diminished  the  unconscious  influence  of  his  mother 
upon  him,  and  so  freed  him  from  remorseful  doubt- 
ings,  which  were  hard  to  combat.  He,  therefore, 
kept  up  his  visits  to  the  saloon  long  after  his 
primary  object  was  accomplished,  and  he  excused 
himself  to  his  mother  for  the  lateness  of  his  home- 
comings by  alleging  the  necessity  for  increased 
exertions  in  his  new  position.  Mrs.  Tryon  accepted 
this  excuse  the  more  readily  as  her  son  had,  of 
course,  informed  her  that  he  was  engaged  to 
Georgie  Boulger.  In  spite  of  Mrs.  Tryon's  natu- 
ral jealousy,  the  girl's  frankness  had  made  a  fa- 
vourable impression  upon  her,  and  the  two  soon 
became  as  good  friends  as  such  a  connection  per- 
mits even  between  women  who  are  both  of  kindly 
nature. 

1^ 


Profit  and  Loss 

In  his  third  or  fourth  visit  to  the  saloon  Tryon 
found  out  that  the  Turn-Verein  Fest,  a  sort  of 
annual  festival,  which  all  Germans  of  the  middle 
and  lower  classes  are  accustomed  to  attend,  would 
be  held  on  the  1st  of  August  (his  visit  to  the 
Boulger's  took  place  on  the  10th  July).  A  few- 
evenings  later  he  learned  that  Lenz  and  his  wife 
were  almost  sure  to  be  present,  and  as  Lenz  held 
some  sort  of  subordinate  office  in  the  Verein,  he 
would  be  kept  at  the  festival  till  midnight  or  later. 
Tryon  had,  therefore,  nothing  to  do  but  prepare 
everything,  wait  for  the  evening  of  the  1st,  and 
then  act.  Methodically,  according  to  his  habit, 
he  took  the  evenings  in  the  saloon  for  thought, 
and  during  the  day  set  himself  to  organise  and 
develop  the  business  with  all  his  energy.  That  he 
knew  would  avert  suspicion  from  him.  Who  could 
imagine  that  the  energetic  manager  would  set  the 
building  on  fire  wherein  he  worked  with  tireless  de- 
votion? And  in  the  evenings  spent  in  the  saloon, 
while  considering  and  reconsidering  all  the  details 
of  his  plan,  he  w^as  but  little  troubled  by  remorse 
or  doubts.  The  unfamiliar  faces  in  the  saloon, 
and  the  strange  speech,  moved  him  to  dislike  and 
contempt;  excited,  indeed,  his  combative  instincts 
while  subduing  his  better  nature.  So  the  da3^s 
passed,  marked  by  no  incident  save  an  occasional 
sentence  or  two  exchanged  with  Georgie  when, 
from  time  to  time,  she,  with  her  mother  or  sisters, 
visited  the  store.  Mr.  Boulger  seldom  went  to 
business  after  Tryon's  inauguration  as  manager; 
and,  when  he  did  go,  the  mere  sight  of  Tryon's 
activity  and  resolution  seemed  to  assure  him  that 
124 


Frank  Harris 

his  cause  was  in  good  hands.  It  was  character- 
istic of  Tryon,  and  of  his  opinion  of  Mr.  Boulger 
that  he  never  told  his  employer  when  or  how  he 
intended  to  effect  their  purpose.  Somehow  or  other 
Tryon  felt  sure  that  if  Mr.  Boulger  knew  the 
moment,  he  would  "  fuss  "  and  perhaps  excite  sus- 
picion;  besides,  as  he  had  undertaken  to  do  the 
thing,  he  wished  to  do  it  in  his  own  way,  taking  all 
the  responsibility  upon  his  own  shoulders.  He 
felt  stronger  alone  than  with  any  associate. 

At  length  the  1st  of  August  dawned.  A  cloud- 
less, hot  day  even  when  Tryon  awoke  at  half-past 
five.  There  was  wind,  too,  a  moderate  breeze  from 
the  north-east,  of  all  winds  the  most  favourable  to 
his  design.  He  couldn't  help  smiling  as  the  prov- 
erb came  into  his  head,  "  It's  an  ill  wind ." 

He  felt  proud  of  himself;  as  the  trial  came  near 
he  was  neither  elated  nor  depressed.  As  usual  he 
talked  quietly  with  his  mother  over  his  breakfast 
and  then  walked  to  the  store.  All  the  day  through 
he  worked  as  usual,  perhaps  with  a  slight  increase 
of  energy,  but  with  all  his  wits  about  him.  To- 
wards six  o'clock  he  happened  to  be  standing  just 
outside  his  office  when  the  Lenzes,  dressed  in  their 
best  clothes,  came  down  the  stairs  towards  him. 
The  shop  was  filled  with  customers  availing  them- 
selves of  the  comparative  coolness  of  the  evening 
to  make  their  purchases.  No  one  of  the  clerks  had 
time  to  notice  the  outgoing  couple  or  the  short 
conversation  which  took  place  between  Lenz  and 
Tryon. 

"  Going  out,  Mr.  Lenz.? "  asked  Tryon  care- 
lessly. 

125 


Profit  and  Loss 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  we  come  back  before  twelve  hour 
and  den  I  set  everjtink  in  order." 

The  man  appeared  to  have  more  to  say;  but 
Tryon  turned  away  smiling,  and  Mrs.  Lenz  drew 
her  spouse  towards  the  back  door.  With  their 
departure  Tryon  felt  that  his  last  anxiety  was 
lifted.  An  hour  or  so  later  he  sat  in  his  office 
alone.  In  half  an  hour  more  he  had  posted  his 
books  in  his  usual,  firm,  clear  hand.  It  was  still 
quite  light.  He  went  up  the  staircase  looking 
round  each  room  as  he  went.  When  he  reached 
the  third  floor  he  walked  to  one  of  the  front  win- 
dows and  threw  it  up.  By  an  instinct  of  careful- 
ness when  he  returned  to  the  staircase  he  went  up 
the  narrow  stairs  which  were  unprotected  by  a 
hand-rail,  to  the  fourth  floor  and  looked  round  the 
bare  attic.  On  his  right  stood  a  wooden  partition 
which  cut  off*  the  Lenzes'  abode  from  the  rest  of 
the  huge  space ;  he  saw  their  door ;  it  was  closed. 
Of  course,  he  thought,  they've  locked  it  till  their 
return.  He  went  down  the  stairs  again  and 
stopped  before  the  petroleum  cask  which  stood  in 
the  corner  formed  by  his  office ;  it  was  covered  from 
view  by  a  piece  of  cloth  (damaged  goods),  which 
lay  on  it  half  unrolled.  In  the  short  interval 
which  had  elapsed  since  he  had  ascended  the  stairs, 
it  had  grown  dark.  By  moving  a  step  or  two, 
however,  he  could  still  see  to  the  top  of  the  flight, 
but  while  he  looked  the  shadows  came  and  shrouded 
everything  in  night  and  mystery.  He  needed  no 
light.  He  knew  it  was  about  nine  o'clock  and  that 
was  the  hour  he  had  fixed  upon  as  most  favourable 
to  his  purpose — a  little  earlier  and  business  people 


Frank  Harris 

were  still  about,  a  little  later  and  the  frequenters 
of  saloons  and  bars  would  be  on  their  homeward 
way.  His  fire  had  a  clear  hour  or  so  in  which  to 
do  its  work ;  less  than  half  that  time  he  had  decided 
would  be  more  than  sufficient.  Quietly  he  moved 
to  the  back-door,  drew  aside  the  green  curtain  and 
peered  out  over  the  empty  lot.  Nothing  stirred. 
He  could  just  see  dimly  across  the  lane  to  the 
backs  of  the  houses  which  fronted  north  on  Jack- 
son Street;  their  outlines  cast  shadows  against  the 
sky.  Nothing  stirred.  He  dropped  the  curtain 
and  returned  to  the  cask  of  petroleum ;  he  didn't 
even  lift  up  the  cloth  which  covered  it ;  he  put  his 
hand  down  underneath  it  and — turned  the  tap. 
He  had  studied  the  floor  carefully  weeks  ago;  he 
knew  that  the  number  of  people  passing  up  and 
down  the  staircase  must  have  depressed  the  floor 
there.  He  heard  nothing  but  the  glug,  glug,  glug, 
of  the  running  oil,  which  seemed  to  keep  time  to 
the  strong  thumping  of  his  heart.  A  few  moments 
and  the  glug,  glug  grew  slower  and  then  silence 
reigned  again.  He  had  drawn  a  step  or  two  back- 
wards just  to  make  sure  that  none  of  the  oil 
spreading  should  come  on  his  boots. 

Now  he  struck  a  wax-match,  and  looked.  Every- 
thing had  taken  place  just  as  he  had  planned  it. 
The  petroleum  had  run  from  the  corner,  and  now 
lay  in  a  broad  pool  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
spreading  two,  oily,  dark  arms  around  it  as  if  to 
embrace  its  prey.  Just  on  the  edge  of  the  pool 
stood  his  basket  of  waste-paper,  and  reaching 
from  the  basket  to  the  dry  floor  a  long  horn  of 
paper.  For  a  moment  Tryon  paused,  but  only 
12T 


Profit  and  Loss 

for  a  moment ;  then  he  stepped  forward  and  put 
the  match  to  the  end  of  the  paper-horn.  As  the 
paper  caught  fire  he  turned  and  walked  quickly  to 
the  back-door.  He  opened  it  and  looked  out  for 
a  minute  or  so  while  he  unlocked  the  outside  iron 
grating:  nothing  stirred.  He  entered  the  store 
again,  and,  holding  the  door  nearly  shut  in  his 
hand,  he  put  his  foot  against  the  large  pane  of 
glass  and  pressed  steadily.  Suddenly  it  broke 
under  the  pressure  and  fell  jingling.  Nothing 
stirred,  and  yet  he  uttered  an  exclamation  to  de- 
ceive a  possible  listener.  People  later,  would  think 
the  glass  was  broken  b}'  the  heat.  It  was  worth 
risking  to  create  a  thorough  draught.  One  glance 
backward  showed  him  the  thick  horn  of  paper 
blazing.  Quickly  he  stepped  outside  and  shut  the 
door.  As  he  put  the  key  in  the  lock  he  heard  above 
its  grating  a  sort  of  hissing  noise.  He  peered 
about  him.  Nothinoc  stirred ;  silence  and  darkness 
enfolded  him.  Standing  in  front  of  the  broken 
window,  he  put  his  hand  carefully  through  and 
drew  a  small  piece  of  the  curtain  aside,  then, 
stooping,  he  looked  in.  At  once  he  let  the  cur- 
tain go,  and,  turning,  passed  through  the  iron 
grating,  which  he  locked.  As  he  went  to  the  lane 
and  walked  down  it  he  felt  a  glow  of  heat  on  his 
back — fancy,  of  course;  but  it  wasn't  fancy  the 
great  flame  w^hich  had  shocked  his  eyes  a  moment 
ago,  and  which  still  seemed  to  blind  him.  It  wasn't 
fancy  either  that  crackling  noise  of  dry  wood  blaz- 
ing. But  he  hadn't  gone  fifty  yards  down  the  lane 
before  the  breathless  excitement  left  him,  giving 
place  to  a  feeling  of  satisfaction.  He  had  done 
128 


Frank  Harris 

his  work  well,  as  he  always  did,  and  if  nothing 
stirred  and  no  one  had  seen  him,  that  was  only 
what  experience  had  taught  him  to  expect.  As 
he  walked  rapidly  towards  the  German  saloon  his 
satisfaction  grew  almost  to  exultation.  He  had 
foreseen  everything;  planned  everything  rightly, 
even  to  the  draught,  and  now  the  wood  under  the 
staircase  was  blazing,  and  the  staircase  itself  a 
tunnel  of  flame.  Half  an  hour  and  Boulger's  store 
would  be  afire  so  that  no  engines  could  extinguish 
the  flames  till  the  floors  fell  in,  leaving  the  black- 
ened walls  to  be  gazed  at  by  a  crowd,  as  when 
Treadwell's  burned  down  in  the  winter.  And  no 
one  had  seen  him ;  he  knew  beforehand  that  it  was 
a  hundred  chances  to  one  that  no  one  would,*  and 
with  the  long  odds  went  success — Georgie  and 
money,  and  a  full,  strong  life  of  successful  labour. 
That  was  the  difference  between  men  like  himself 
and  criminals.  Those  who  committed  crimes,  as  a 
rule,  were  degraded  and  debased  specimens  of  hu- 
manity, who  had  neither  foresight  nor  coolness. 
He  had  both,  therefore  everything  went  well  with 
him.  With  these  thoughts  and  in  the  mood  they 
indicate,  he  reached  the  saloon.  It  was  nearly 
empty;  he  took  his  usual  seat  and  called  for  a 
glass  of  lager-bier.  Instinctively  when  in  the  light 
he  looked  at  his  right  foot — no,  neither  the  oil  nor 
the  glass  had  marked  it;  he  was  too  cool,  had 
taken  too  much  care  to  make  any  slightest  mis- 
take. As  the  Kellner  brought  him  his  beer  Tryon 
watched  to  see  if  the  man  noticed  anything  un- 
usual in  his  appearance  or  manner.  No;  with  a 
"  Goot  evenin' !  "  the  man  put  the  glass  before  him, 
129 


Profit  and  Loss 

and  turned  away  indifferently.  Reassured,  Tryon 
set  himself  to  consider  once  again,  as  he  had  often 
considered  in  the  last  few  days,  the  question 
whether  any  one  could  connect  him  with  the  fire? 
No — no  one.  Suspicion  there  might  be.  It  was 
to  Boulger's  interest  that  the  store  should  be 
burned;  the  insurance  was  very  heavy,  and  there- 
fore he,  or  some  one  moved  by  him,  might  have 
done  the  work,  but  then  Boulger's  name  was  good, 
and  of  proof  or  of  connecting  link  there  wasn't  a 
trace. 

It  w^as  characteristic  of  Tryon  that  his  feeling 
of  complete  security  should  awaken  remorse  in 
him. 

"  'Twas  a  miserable  thing  to  have  done  after  all 
— a  mean  fraud.  Theft,"  he  faced  the  word, 
"  theft.     What  a  fool  Boulger  had  been ;  what  a 

vain,  weak Now,  there  was  nothing  for  it 

but  to  get  to  work.  If  Boulger  played  fair  and 
made  him  a  partner,  he  might  yet  get  rich  enough 
to  make  up  for  the  fraud.  He  didn't  want  to 
steal;  there  was  no  dishonest  instinct  in  him,  he 
felt  proudly.  He  knew  what  he  could  make  of 
the  business;  with  half  the  stock  it  should  bring 
in  at  least  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  profit  the 
first  year,  and  more  in  every  succeeding  year. 
Then  if  he  got  rich  he'd  pay  the  money  back  in 
some  way — pay  it  to  the  poor;  they  needed  it 
more  than  the  rich  insurance  companies.  But  he'd 
see  that  they  got  something,  too.  The  new  store 
would,  of  course,  be  fireproof;  he'd  insure  it  for 
more  than  the  proper  amount,  for  more  than  it 
was  insured  at  before,  and  he'd  not  carry  half  the 
130 


Frank  Harris 

stock.  So  the  insurance  companies  would  get  some 
of  their  money  back,  anyway.  There'd  be  no  more 
fires  while  Dave  Tryon  was  manager;  he'd  take 
care  of  that." 

Here  his  reflections  broke  off  in  a  chill  of 
anxiety. 

"  If  the  fire  hadn't  caught,  had  burned  out  in 
spite  of  all  his  care.  Absurd.  It  had  caught — 
it  must  have.  He  had  done  his  work  too  well  to 
be  afraid  of  that.  But  if  it  had  caught,  some 
one  should  have  seen  it  ere  this.  No.  'Twas  bet- 
ter that  no  one  should  notice  it  for  at  least  half 
an  hour,  and  he  hadn't  been  sitting  down  ten 
minutes  yet. 

"  Suppose  some  one  noticed  it  now — now !  and 
gave  the  alarm.  It  might  be  put  out,  and  all  his 
work  lost  and  hopes  gone."  Mechanically  he  took 
out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  the  cold  perspira- 
tion from  his  forehead.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  took  up  the  glass  and  drank  the  beer. 
Usually  he  spilled  some  of  it  and  left  the  rest.  In 
a  moment  again  his  throat  was  parched;  but  he 
wouldn't  drink  any  more;  the  Kellner  might  re- 
mark it,  if  he  asked  for  a  second  glass. 

Every  moment  that  passed  made  his  position 
better.  "  'Twould  be  all  right."  And  so  he  sat 
and  waited,  outwardly  calm;  but  every  minute 
seemed  an  hour  to  him,  till  he  ventured  to  look  at 
his  watch,  and  saw  that  it  was  half-past  nine.  Then 
relief  came  for  a  time. 

"  'Twas  all  right  now ;  the  traces  of  his  work 
had  all  been  destroyed  by  this  time,  swallowed  up 
by  the  flames.  Poor  work  it  was — mighty  poor." 
131 


Profit  and  Loss 

For  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an  hour  this 
thouglit  was  with  him  in  all  its  bitterness;  then 
the  old  doubts  came  to  him  again. 

"  Perhaps  it  hadn't  caught,  after  all ! — hadn't 
got  to  the  piled-up  wood.  Some  one  would  surely 
have  noticed  it  by  now  if  it  had  really  caught,  as 
he  intended  it  should.  But,  no!  That  hour  was 
the  quietest  in  the  whole  day.  Besides  the  front 
door  was  so  protected;  till  the  second  storey  was 
blazing  no  one  could  see  anything.  But  as  the 
minutes  passed  the  doubt  grew  stronger  and 
stronger.  In  spite  of  his  resolution  and  courage 
his  feverish  anxiety  made  it  almost  impossible  for 
him  to  sit  quietly  there  and  wait  while  the  precious 
minutes  flew.  Weeks  ago,  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  back  to  the  store  at  half-past  ten,  if 
the  alarm  had  not  been  given  before,  and  in  case 
the  fire  had  burnt  out,  to  do  his  best  to  hide  his 
handiw^ork.  And  it  was  already  quarter  past  ten ; 
his  face  seemed  to  grow  harder  and  thinner  as  he 
thought  that,  after  all,  it  was  possible  that  his 
labour  and  care  had  been  vain. 

Of  a  sudden  his  eager  senses  became  aware  of  a 
stir  in  the  distance;  he  listened,  and  could  hear 
nothing.  Yet  again,  and  far  aw^ay  the  air  seemed 
to  be  stirred  with  sound,  though  he  could  distin- 
guish nothing.  He  looked  about  him;  no  one 
seemed  to  have  noticed  anything  unusual.  Yet  he 
was  sure,  and  his  heart  and  temples  throbbed  tu- 
multuously.  There !  Distinctly  he  heard  running 
footsteps  pass  the  corner  hastening  up  Lee  Street. 
Would  those  dolts  never  hear,  and  so  give  him  the 
chance  of  flying  to  the  scene  of  action?     There! 


Fratik  Harris 

and  again  the  hurr3ang  footsteps  and  the  vibrant, 
living  air  with  its  eager  message  seemed  to  draw 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  past  the  door  of  the  saloon 
went  one  racing.  At  last  the  Germans  seemed  to 
become  conscious  that  something  unusual  was 
afoot. 

As  the  Kellner  stopped  on  his  way  to  an  open- 
mouthed  customer  and  looked  towards  the  door, 
which  hurr^'ing  footsteps  were  again  passing, 
Tryon  rose  quietly  and  walked  to  the  bar.  As  he 
laid  down  his  quarter  he  said  to  the  proprietor: 

"  I  guess  there's  something  the  matter." 

He  was  proud  of  the  fact  that  his  voice  was  as 
quiet  and  even  as  usual,  though  the  beatings  of 
his  heart  seemed  to  shake  his  chest.  As  the  man 
turned  towards  him,  the  brazen  voice  of  the  alarm- 
bell  shocked  the  air.  With  the  first  note  Tryon 
was  in  the  street ;  he  had  felt  that  all  had  risen  to 
the  warning,  and  that  he  was  free  to  act.  What 
a  relief  it  was  to  run  lightly  along  the  bending 
wooden  sidewalk  to  the  corner.  No  more  restraint 
needed ;  he  could  have  shouted  with  the  mere  delight 
of  freedom  and  excitement.  As  he  turned  into  Lee 
Street  he  found  himself  beside  another  man  who 
was  racing,  his  breath  coming  in  short,  laboured 
gasps. 

"  Where  is  it .?  "  cried  Tryon  to  him. 

"  Don't  know." 

Then  others  were  beside  him,  and  soon  among 
the  knot  running  some  one  said : 

"  It's  Boulger's." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Tryon,  as  if  horrified,  and 
at  once  sped  away  from  them. 
133 


Profit  and  Loss 

As  he  stopped  in  front  of  the  building  he  found 
himself  in  a  group  of  some  thirty  or  forty  men  and 
boys,  who  were  all  gazing  up  at  the  ominous  red 
gleam  in  the  window  of  the  second  storey.  Thick 
smoke  was  issuing  from  the  window  on  the  third 
floor,  and  in  spite  of  the  darkness  of  the  night 
could  be  seen  against  the  sky,  whirling  away  in 
black  wisps  of  rack.  At  the  same  moment  Tryon 
became  aware  of  a  noise  within  the  building  which 
was  at  once  crackle  and  hiss  and  muffled  roar,  the 
sound  which  once  heard  is  never  afterwards  mis- 
taken for  any  other — the  voice  of  a  great  fire  with 
its  chords  of  menace  and  rage  and  triumph. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  he  cried,  pushing  his 
way  towards  the  great  entrance.  "  I've  the 
keys." 

"  Nothin',  I  guess,"  some  one  answered,  "  here's 
the  engine." 

Down  the  street  it  came,  like  a  thing  alive,  the 
horses  galloping,  the  men  shouting,  and  drew  up 
before  the  door.  As  the  firemen,  with  an  astonish- 
ing celerity,  got  to  work,  each  man  in  his  place, 
opening  the  main,  attaching  the  hose-pipe,  etc., 
with  the  practical  genius  characteristic  of  the  race, 
and  which  is  always  seen  at  its  best  when  the  need 
of  action  is  greatest,  Tryon  stepped  to  the  side 
of  the  chief — "  I've  the  keys.  Shall  I  open  the 
door?" 

"  No,  'twould  make  a  draught,"  came  the  quick 
answer ;  "  we'll  have  to  get  to  work  through  the 
second  storey,  though  I'm  afraid  we're  too  late." 

The  man  had  hardly   finished   speaking   when 
there  came  a  loud  crash  and  the  noise  of  breaking 
134) 


Frank  Harris 

glass,  and  then  the  flames,  leaping  from  their  con- 
finement out  into  the  air  through  the  second  storey 
casements,  lit  up  great  clouds  of  dust  which  rose 
from  the  quivering  building,  and  the  faces  of  the 
firemen  and  those  of  the  crowd  of  people  who  filled 
the  further  side-walk,  revealing  every  incident  of 
the  scene  in  one  glare  of  yellow-red  light.  Then 
the  flames  drew  in  again  as  a  man  draws  breath  for 
a  further  eff'ort. 

"  By  God !  The  first  floor's  gone ;  the  place'll 
fall  in  before  we  get  three  engines  to  work.  Clear 
the  side-walks  there!  Fifty  yards  from  the  en- 
gine.    Stand  back ! " 

As  the  order  was  given  the  crowd  fell  back 
quietly,  drawing  Tryon  with  them.  In  a  whirl  of 
emotions  and  sensations  not  to  be  analyzed  then 
or  afterwards,  Tryon  stood  among  his  fellows 
while  a  ladder  was  reared  against  the  building, 
and  a  fireman  climbed  it  and  began  to  pla}^  through 
the  shattered  windows  of  the  second  storey.  He 
saw  the  flames  leap  out  against  the  stream  of 
water  as  if  in  combat;  he  heard  men  about  him 
saying  that  in  an  hour  the  building  would  fall  in ; 
he  was  conscious  that  a  second  engine  had  come 
to  aid  the  first,  and  a  little  later  that  a  third  had 
arrived,  but  thought  was  whelmed  in  feeling.  He 
realised  that  all  eff'orts  were  in  vain,  that  nothing 
could  check  the  fire,  that  his  work  was  done — com- 
pletely. And  then  remorse  came  upon  him;  at 
first  with  a  vague  sense  of  loss,  such  as  one  feels 
in  missing  the  familiar  and  accustomed;  later, 
with  the  full  understanding  of  waste  and  destruc- 
tion, as  acutely  keen  regret.  Suddenly  the  feehng 
135 


Profit  and  Loss 

ebbed,  leaving  him  conscious  of  utter  weariness ; 
instinctively  he  changed  his  posture  and  began 
to  look  about  him.  He  was  on  the  edge  of  the 
side-walk,  about  twenty  yards  below  the  circle 
wherein  stood  the  three  engines,  with  the  firemen 
moving  about  automatically  in  the  strong  light 
which  poured  from  the  windows  of  the  second 
storey.  Far  away  up  and  down  the  street  the 
crowd  stretched  into  the  darkness.  With  clear 
brain  now  he  took  in  all  the  details  of  the  scene. 
Two  streams  of  water  rose  from  the  street  like 
silver  serpents,  bent  in  an  arc  which  ended  hissing 
among  the  flames  from  the  casements:  the  third, 
directed  by  a  fireman  standing  on  a  ladder  at  the 
height  of  the  second  storey,  but  a  little  way  from 
the  window,  ran  out  from  the  pipe  in  a  long  arrow 
which,  now  here,  now  there,  gleamed  like  a  ray 
of  moonlight.  Try  on' s  heart  lay  heavy  within 
him  as  he  took  in  the  progress  of  the  ruin  he  had 
wrought.  "  Never  again,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, "  never  again." 

All  at  once  came  the  sharp  noise  of  glass  break- 
ing on  the  side-walk,  and  then  from  the  height 
above  the  fireman  on  the  ladder,  from  a  window 
of  the  fourth  storey  a  cry — a  shrill  child's  voice 
shrieking  in  terror — and  as  Tryon  looked  up  he 
saw  two  thin  arms  waving  and  a  little  black  head 
which  suddenly  disappeared.  Speechless,  with  a 
dread  he  would  not  acknowledge  and  was  afraid 
to  understand,  he  stood  at  gaze. 

"Whose  is  the  child?" 

They  were  asking  him!  How  should  he  know? 
He  could  do  nothing  but  look  his  horror.  "  A 
136 


Frank  Harris 

little  nigger.  A  coloured  girl.  'Bout  twelve 
years  old ;  "  the  hurried  exclamations  fluttered ; 
then  all  eyes  turned  again  to  the  burning  building. 
Mechanically  Tryon's  followed.  Three  serpents 
instead  of  two  now  curved  from  the  street  to  the 
window^s.  Four  of  five  men  were  moving  the  ladder 
a  little  more  to  the  left,  and  then  came  a  groan  of 
disappointment  as  it  was  seen  that  the  ladder  only 
just  reached  to  the  window  of  the  third  floor. 
Quickly  a  fireman  ran  up  it  and  disappeared 
through  the  window;  the  crowd  surged  forward, 
carrying  Tryon  with  it.  The  movement  seemed  to 
give  him  conscious  thought. 

"Not  fire  then— not  theft.  Murder!"  The 
child  must  have  been  employed  by  the  Lenzes.  The 
man's  hesitation  came  back  to  him.  He  under- 
stood it  all  at  once.  His  previous  remorse  inten- 
sified to  horror.  And  in  his  horror  came  strangely 
the  thought  of  his  mother,  nerving  him  to  action. 
"  No,  that  mustn't  be,  sha'n't  be,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "not  that!  not  that!" 

With  the  resolution  the  blood  came  back  into 
his  veins  In  quick  thrills.  Just  at  this  moment  he 
saw  the  fireman  appear  again  at  the  window  on 
the  third  storey,  with  a  gesture  as  of  regret.  As 
the  man  climbed  over  the  sill  and  began  to  descend 
the  ladder,  Tryon  with  all  his  senses  about  him, 
tore  himself  through  the  crowd  as  a  bramble  is 
torn  from  a  garment.  As  the  firemen  pushed  him 
back  from  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  he  said  simply, 
"  I  know  the  way."  They  pointed  to  the  man  de- 
scending and  he  waited  a  moment  quietly.  He 
was  not  one  of  those  who  act  bravely  on  an  im- 
137 


Profit  and  Loss 

pulse;  he  needed  thought  and  time  for  decision, 
but  once  his  resolution  taken  he  was  sure  to  carry 
it  out  undeterred  by  fear  of  danger.  As  the  fire- 
man put  his  foot  on  the  ground,  Tryon  began  to 
mount  the  ladder — slowly,  for  the  work  was  new 
to  him — carefully,  for  he  didn't  mean  to  fall.  As 
he  went  up,  rung  by  rung,  more  and  more  surely 
and  quickly,  stern  joy  came  to  him. 

"  This  was  the  way.  So  he'd  blot  out  his  fault." 
Such  was  his  thought  till  he  found  himself  on 
the  third  floor  moving  towards  the  ladder  stair- 
case. He  had  gone  perhaps  half  the  way  when  he 
felt  himself  choking  with  the  smoke ;  his  eyes,  too, 
were  burning;  he  closed  them  and  held  his  breath 
and  went  on  quickly.  A  dozen  steps  and  he  opened 
his  eyes  again.  Before  him  to  his  left  was  the 
staircase,  a  round  furnace  mouth  of  flame  eating 
away  at  the  ladder  which  led  to  the  fourth  floor; 
it  scorched  his  face ;  unconsciously  he  drew  breath 
and  was  nearly  choked  with  the  thick  smoke.  One 
quick  glance  and  he  turned  and  ran  back  to  the 
v/indow. 

The  firem.an  had  followed  him  up.  Tryon 
thrust  his  head  past  him  into  the  air  and  drew  two 
or  three  long,  cool  breaths.  The  fireman  said, 
"  It's  no  use.  No  one  can  do  it."  Tryon  filled 
his  lungs  to  the  uttei*most  and  turning  with  eyes 
shut  ran  down  the  store.  He  had  judged  the  dis- 
tance in  his  mind.  Of  a  sudden  he  stopped  and 
opening  his  eyes  found  himself  almost  where  he  had 
been  before.  Measuring  the  space  with  his  eye 
he  took  two  quick  steps — and  jumped.  He  landed 
on  the  ladder  and  scrambled  up  it.  As  he  came 
138 


Frank  Harris 

to  the  top  he  fell  forward  on  his  face  on  the  fourth 
floor.  He  could  still  breathe  there.  Instinctively 
he  rubbed  his  legs  together  to  put  out  the  fire 
which  had  caught  his  trousers  and  was  burning 
him.  Then  he  called  out,  "  Where  are  you?  "  No 
answer.  He  ran  to  a  window  and  smashed  it  with 
his  fist  in  a  sort  of  vague  hope  to  get  light  and 
air.  Again  and  again  he  called  as  he  went  along 
the  front  wall  feeling  sure  the  child  would  be 
there.  Suddenly  he  saw  her  crouching  in  the  far- 
thest comer.  He  picked  her  up  at  once  and 
ran  as  well  as  he  could  towards  the  ladder.  As 
he  put  his  foot  on  the  first  step,  she  began  to 
scream  and  struggle.  No  wonder:  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  they  were  going  into  the  heart  of  the 
furnace  which  was  roaring  beneath  them.  Tryon' 
held  her  firmly  and  went  down  a  few  steps  carefully 
to  get  beneath  the  floor.  The  heat  was  too  fright- 
ful; he  could  go  no  further.  As  he  turned  on 
the  ladder  he  felt  almost  sure  that  he  couldn't 
jump  beyond  the  flames.  But  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done.  Holding  the  child  tightly  to 
him  with  his  left  arm,  he  sprang  out  with  desper- 
ate eff^ort. 

So  far  he  was  fully  conscious  and  sensible. 
But  in  his  determination  to  protect  the  child,  he 
had  jumped  in  such  a  way  that  if  he  fell  his 
right  arm  would  sustain  the  shock.  As  he  landed 
on  the  floor  and  pitched  forward  just  clear  of  the 
flames,  his  right  arm  snapped  under  his  weight. 
His  consciousness  seemed  to  turn  to  sick  agony. 
He  rolled  over  on  his  back,  and  he  had  to  push  with 
the  broken  arm  to  regain  his  balance  and  rise  to 
139 


Profit  and  Loss 

his  feet.  Each  time,  too,  he  put  his  right  foot 
to  the  ground,  he  grew  faint.  How  he  got  for- 
ward, he  never  knew.  But  the  will  in  him  held, 
sharpened  now  by  a  dread  which  was  all  instinc- 
tive. Of  a  sudden  as  it  seemed  to  him,  he  reached 
the  window ;  he  saw  the  fireman's  hand  on  the  sill ; 
he  pushed  the  child  against  it.  In  an  instant  the 
fireman  had  taken  the  child,  lifted  her  over  the  sill 
and  disappeared  with  her  down  the  ladder.  With 
the  removal  of  his  burden,  Tryon  seemed  to  lose 
his  purpose  and  almost  his  senses.  A  sick  faint- 
ness  came  over  him  and  he  sank  down  against  the 
sill  without  strength  sufficient  to  put  his  leg  over 
it,  much  less  to  descend  the  ladder.  His  force  was 
spent.  But  the  fresh  air  revived  him  a  little,  and 
the  intense  pain  of  his  wrist  rousing  him  to  a  sense 
of  danger,  moved  him  to  a  last  effort.  Slowly  and 
with  infinite  pain  he  got  his  right  leg  over  the  sill, 
and  so  lay  astride  upon  it,  half  unconscious,  inca- 
pable of  movement.  But  the  crowd  below,  much 
more  interested  in  him  than  in  the  saved  child, 
shouted  to  the  firemen,  two  of  whom,  realising  his 
state,  ran  up  the  ladder  almost  side  by  side.  Just 
as  the  foremost  reached  him,  there  came  another 
crash,  and,  as  the  third  floor  fell  in,  the  imprisoned 
flames  sprang  up  round  Tryon,  as  if  reluctant  to 
lose  their  prey.  For  a  moment  the  crowd  saw  him 
in  the  heart  of  the  fire,  and  then  he  w^as  dragged 
down  on  to  the  ladder  and  held  in  front  of  the  fire- 
men, who  began  to  descend  slowly,  letting  the  un- 
conscious body  slide  after  them.  As  he  passed  the 
light  of  the  second  storey  it  appeared  to  everyone 
in  the  crowd  that  Tryon  was  dead.  So  limp  he 
140 


Frank  Harris 

lay  and  helpless,  with  the  right  hand  bent  back, 
like  a  broken  stick  which  hangs  only  by  the  bark. 
As  the  men  reached  the  ground  and  bore  him 
across  the  street  and  laid  him  on  the  pavement  not 
a  sound  was  to  be  heard,  save  the  hysterical  sob- 
bing of  the  negro-girl.  A  few  moments  passed, 
moments  of  intense  anxiety  to  thousands  who  didn't 
even  know  Tryon's  name,  and  then  as  the  doctor 
stood  up  with,  "  I  think  he'll  bear  carrying,"  a 
wave  of  joy  went  through  the  crowd,  and  tears 
came  into  many  eyes  unused  to  weeping.  Stretched 
on  a  mattrass  he  was  borne  still  unconscjous  to  his 
mother's  house.  The  crowd  followed  quietly;  the 
interest  in  the  fire  was  lost  in  this  deeper  interest. 
As  the  doctor  reached  the  door  just  before  the 
bearers,  it  was  opened  to  him  by  Mrs.  Try  on. 

In  a  few  hasty  words  he  told  her  of  her  son's 
daring,  and  assured  her  that  he  thought  he  would 
pull  through.  The  mother  took  the  sentence  with- 
out flinching,  and  candle  in  hand  showed  the  way 
into  her  own  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor.  As 
the  bearers  emerged  from  the  house  and  closed  the 
street-door  after  them,  the  crowd  began  to  move 
away.  It  occurred  to  them  at  last  that  the  night 
was  far  advanced.  But  still  they  went  in  groups 
talking  and  discussing  the  story. 

"  Jack  Whatman  said  it  couldn't  be  done.  The 
smoke  was  awful.  ...  All  for  a  nigger-girl.  I'll 
just  be  damned.  He  has  sand  in  him.  .  .  .  But 
why  did  he  go?  Not  I  for  a  nigger.  .  .  .  He's 
broke  his  arm.  And  leg !  Did  ye  hear  the  nigger 
cryin'.f'  I  guess  he  was  more  worth'n  a  pile  of 
nigger  girls.  .  .  .  The  doctor  thinks  he'll  live. 
141 


Profit  and  Loss 

He'll  never  be  as  good  a  man  again.  Never !  .  .  . 
What'll  Boulger  say?  What'll  he  do?  He's  in- 
sured, I  guess.  You  bet.  He  ain't  no  fool.  The 
nigger  might  have  burned  for  him.  He'll  get  the 
greenbacks.  .  .  .  Who  d'ye  think  will  be  manager 
now?  " 

IV 

Mr.  Boulger  drove  into  Kansas  City  very  early 
the  morning  after  the  fire  so  as  to  catch  Tryon 
alone  before  the  store  opened ;  he  had  a  difficult  and 
unpleasant  task  to  perform.  It  was  manifest  to 
him  that  Tryon,  in  spite  of  his  resolute  manner, 
was  "  lettin'  things  slide."  He  had  gone  to  busi- 
ness again  and  again  with  the  intention  of  press- 
ing Tryon  to  immediate  action,  but  somehow  or 
other  he  felt  it  impossible  even  to  approach  the 
subject  when  he  came  face  to  face  with  his  strong 
manager.  Yet,  since  their  compact  had  been  set- 
tled he  had  never  entered  the  store  with  any  other 
object.  And  this  for  a  good  reason.  He  knew 
that  Tryon  had  taken  control  of  the  business  as 
master ;  he  felt  that  his  presence  in  the  store  under 
these  circumstances  would  be  a  tacit  recognition 
of  Tryon's  position  and  authority,  and  that  it 
would  be  difficult  for  him  later  to  turn  the  whilom 
manager  into  a  subordinate.  Accordingly,  he  had 
determined  not  to  go  to  the  store  till  afterwards, 
when  he  could  at  once  show  Tryon  his  true  posi- 
tion. Tryon,  he  felt,  was  altogether  too  master- 
ful, and  besides,  he  was  young  and  inexperienced. 
In  fact,  it  was  almost  impossible  for  Mr.  Boulger 
U2 


Frank  Harris 

to  contemplate  any  one  as  manager  of  the  business 
which  he  flattered  himself  he  and  he  alone  under- 
stood in  all  its  bearings.  Tryon's  astonishing 
knowledge  of  the  business  in  its  details  and  possi- 
ble development  was  a  perpetual  annoyance  to  his 
employer,  Mr.  Boulger  liked  to  ask  questions 
which  no  one  could  answer;  it  showed  his  superior 
intelligence.  But  Tryon  had  an  answer  to  all 
relevant  questions,  and  he  simply  did  not  hear  ir- 
relevant ones.  His  knowledge  was  insulting. 
Then,  too,  Mr.  Boulger  liked  to  make  suggestions, 
to  propose  new  schemes  by  which  the  business 
might  be  developed.  And  Tryon  had  either  put 
these  schemes  into  operation  already  or  else  was 
prepared  to  demonstrate  their  impracticability. 
He  was  always  so  d d  conceited.  And  this  con- 
ceit enraged  Mr.  Boulger.  Again  and  again  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  go  near  the  store 
till —  But  yes,  he'd  just  look  in  for  a  moment 
and  ask  carelessly,  "  Well,  Dave,  is  everything 
goin'  on  all  right  ?  "  No  one  but  Tryon  could  un- 
derstand that.  And  a  word  in  reply  would  be  suf- 
ficient. That  was  all  he  wanted — ^to  know  the 
thing  was  movin'.  But  'twas  '  npossible  to  ask  the 
question.  There  was  Tryon  directing,  managing 
everything,  pretending  to  be  very  busy,  scarcely 
vouchsafing  a  word  to  him,  who,  after  all,  was  not 
only  the  owner,  but  knew  more  of  the  business  than 
any  one  else  could  possibly  know.  'Twas  exasper- 
atin%  and  he  didn't  intend  to  put  up  with  such 
treatment  any  longer. 

For  all  the  while  Tryon  was  just  tradin'  on  his 
generosity.     'Twas  all  very  well  for  him  to  play 


Profit  and  Loss 

manager  and  take  five  tliousand  dollars  a  year;  to 
talk  and  whisper  to  Georgie  as  if  he  were  already 
her  husband ;  but  what  had  lie  done  for  it  all? 
Nothin'.  Nothin'  as  3^et  an^^way.  And  perhaps 
— perhaps  he  didn't  mean  to  do  anythin'?  Who 
could  tell?  Mr.  Boulger  grew  cold  with  fear  at 
the  thought,  and  then  viciously  angry.  He'd  put 
down  his  foot.  He  wasn't  to  be  fooled  easily;  he 
knew  a  thing  or  two ;  he  could  play  a  game  as  well 
as  the  next  man.  Damn  him!  He'd  show  him 
that  kindness,  generosity,  yes,  generosity,  didn't 
mean  foolishness — w^asn't  to  be  pla^^ed  with. 
And  so  this  very  morning  he  told  Georgie  that  she 
was  altogether  too  free  with  Tryon.  She  shouldn't 
talk  to  him  in  the  store.  It  didn't  look  well.  She 
was  treating  him  as  if  he  were  her  husband,  and 
those  daily  visits  to  his  mother  were  out  of  place 
— altogether  out  of  place. 

The  girl  had  regarded  him  with  astonishment, 
and  her  astonishment  brought  him  to  a  standstill. 
He  saw  he  had  gone  too  far. 

Of  course,  he  thought  a  pile  of  Tryon.  Tryon 
was  hard  working,  and  'twould  all  come  right  with 
time,  he  guessed ;  but  there  was  no  use  in  goin'  too 
fast.  Girls  shouldn't  go  too  fast;  'twarn't  their 
place,  and  so  forth — the  reproaches  dying  away 
into  weak  generalities. 

But  the  consciousness  of  this  impotent  conclu- 
sion only  exasperated  him  the  more  with  Tryon. 
"Was  he  or  was  he  not  goin'  to  do  the  work? 
And  if  so,  when?"  These  were  the  questions  to 
which  Mr.  Boulger  resolved  to  get  an  immediate 
answer,  and  as  he  drove  into  the  city  he  made  up 
144 


Frank  Harris 

his  mind  that  he  would  grasp  the  thistle  firmly. 
He  wouldn't  give  Tryon  any  more  time;  he  had 
given  more  than  enough  already.  Besides,  time 
was  everythin'  In  this  matter.  That  bill  of  Stew- 
art's pressed,  and  Tryon  knew  about  It.  'Twas 
too  bad  of  Tryon  to  keep  him  in  such  anxiety. 
'Twarn't  fair  of  him.  No,  he'd  have  an  answer  at 
last.     He'd  Insist  on  having  one. 

Immersed  In  such  reflections  as  these,  Mr.  Boul- 
ger  reached  Lee  Street.  Owing  partly  to  the 
earllness  of  the  hour,  and  partly  to  his  own  pre- 
occupation, he  had  almost  reached  the  store  before 
noticing  anything  unusual.  But  as  he  turned  Into 
Lee  Street  at  the  very  block  whereon  his  house  of 
business  stood,  he  banished  thought  and  looked 
about  him.  The  street  seemed  crowded;  people 
had  come  to  business  earlier  than  usual.  What 
was  that.?  Impulsively  he  drew  the  reins  tight, 
and  his  trotter's  speed  quickened  to  racing  pace. 
In  another  minute,  with  white  face  and  trembling 
lips,  he  was  in  front  of  the  blackened  four  walls, 
from  which  smoke  was  still  issuing — the  walls 
which  but  3^esterday  had  been  his  store.  Para- 
lyzed with  amazement  and  fear  he  sat  in  the  buggy 
staring.     The  surprise  stood  him  in  good  stead. 

"Why,  Mr.  Boulger,  you  look  astonished?" 
The  sarcastic  Interrogation  came  from  the  agent  of 
a  New  York  Insurance  Company,  which  stood  to 
pay  Mr.  Boulger  a  hundred  thousand  dollars — If, 
indeed,  the  fire  was  an  accident.  The  agent,  a 
young  and  able  man  who  commanded  the  respect 
of  his  colleagues,  had  a  very  strong  suspicion  that 
this  fire,  so  extraordinary  in  its  completeness,  was 
145 


Profit  and  Loss 

not  due  to  mere  chance;  but  when  he  saw  turned 
upon  him  Mr.  Boulger's  white  face,  trembling  lips 
and  vacant  stare  of  wonder,  all  his  doubts  disap- 
peared. This  man  evidently  knew  nothing  of  the 
catastrophe,  and  as  he  was  the  only  party  inter- 
ested— Mr.  Jenkins  at  once  changed  his  tone. 

"  Hadn't  you  heard  the  news.?  " 

"  When — ?  "  The  interrogation  caused  Mr. 
Boulger  a  gulp. 

"  Between  nine  and  ten  last  night.  'Twas  all 
over  by  twelve,  before  that  German  and  his  wife 
got  back  from  their  doggoned  festival.  I  guess 
he  had  left  somethin'  bumin'.  But  hain't  you 
heard  of  Tryon,  your  manager?  Every  one's 
talkin'  of  him." 

Mr.  Boulger  shook  his  head;  fear  seized  him. 
What  about  Tryon?  For  the  life  of  him  he 
couldn't  have  uttered  a  word.  Then,  as  the  crowd 
gathered  about  his  buggy,  Mr.  Boulger  heard  the 
whole  story.  As  he  listened  to  the  curt  phrases 
which  seemed  to  sharpen  the  edges  of  the  tragedy 
and  to  lend  weight  to  the  praise  of  Tryon's  con- 
duct, Mr.  Boulger's  muscles  relaxed,  and  his  face 
gradually  regained  its  colour  and  ordinary  ex- 
pression. What  should  he  say  ?  He  felt  that  Jen- 
kins was  takin'  him  in  and  postin'  him  up.  The 
enthusiasm  with  which  the  crowd  listened  to  the 
meagre  statement  of  what  Tryon  had  done,  gave 
Mr.  Boulger  his  cue. 

"  Well,  the  fire's  bad  enough  for  me,  but  I'd  lose 
twice  as  much  to  know  that  Tryon  was  out  of  dan- 
ger." With  the  actor's  instinct,  which  is  insepa- 
rable from  vanity,  he  saw  from  the  faces  of  the 


Frank  Harris 

people  that  he  had  struck  the  right  note,  and  so  he 
went  on.  "  Why,  he's  engaged  to  my  daughter ! 
I  must  go  right  off  and  see  him.  What'll — " 
From  a  dozen  men  came  words  of  approval  and 
sympathy.  Mr.  Boulger  glowed  with  pleasure; 
he  felt  at  ease  again,  but  his  inventive  faculty  was 
neither  facile  nor  profound. 

"  Georgie'll  want  to  know  whether  there's  any 
hope.  I — "  The  chord  seemed  false,  not  equal 
to  the  diapason  of  popular  sympathy  and  rever- 
ence. Mr.  Boulger  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mis- 
take, but  having  to  say  something,  struck  the  right 
key  immediately,  with — 

"  I'll  fetch  my  daughter :  she'll  do  him  good,  I 
guess."  Again  the  murmur  of  approval;  and 
forthwith  he  drove  rapidly  up  the  street  home- 
wards. Again  his  impressionable  nature  had 
served  him  better  than  any  calculation  could  have 
done.  As  Mr.  Boulger  turned  and  drove  away 
without  even  a  word  to  him,  Jenkins,  the  insurance 
agent,  felt  his  last  doubts  removed.  Clearly  Boul- 
ger knew  nothing  of  the  tragedy  and  feared  no 
investigation;  he  wasn't  conciliatory,  not  polite 
even.  So  Mr.  Jenkins  set  himself  to  think  how 
he  could  turn  this  knowledge  to  account.  Utterly 
unconscious  of  the  effect  he  had  produced,  or  of  its 
importance,  Mr.  Boulger  drove  on  in  a  whirl  of 
emotions  and  thoughts. 

He  was  glad.  Yes.  The  store  was  burned 
clean  out;  the  insurance  money  was  safe;  he  was 
all  right;  Stewart's  bill  all  right  too;  but  what 
did  it  all  mean  ?  Try  on  wounded  and  badly  burnt 
was  to  him  a  source  of  dread.  What  mightn't 
14T 


Profit  and  Loss 

happen?  He  might  be  delirious;  might  begin  to 
talk ;  might — God,  what  bad  luck ! 

"  He  might  die — without  speakin'."  Mr.  Boul- 
ger  felt  a  w^arm  thrill  of  pleasure  run  through  him 
at  the  thought.  "  But  nothin'  ever  turns  out  quite 
right — nothin'.  Still  he  might.  Who  knows.? 
The  men  seemed  to  say  he  was  very  bad." 

With  the  feeling  that  Tryon  was  pretty  sure 
to  die,  Mr.  Boulger  was  conscious  of  a  certain 
pity  and  almost  affection  for  him.  "  Poor  devil, 
it's  hard  on  him ;  he  did  the  thing  well ;  "  but  as  the 
thought  came  again  that  perhaps  Tryon  might 
"  let  out  "  something  instead  of  dying  quietly,  the 
pity  gave  place  in  Mr.  Boulger  to  a  sort  of  sur- 
prised indignation  not  unmixed  with  contempt. 

"  What  did  he  want  tryin'  to  save  a  nigger  girl? 
Why  didn't  he  go  quietly  home  and  let  the  store 
burn?  'Twas  foolish  goin'  back.  And  then  to 
try  what  the  jfireman  said  was  impossible.  That 
was  just  like  him;  he  always  knew  better  than  any 
one  else :  he'd  never  take  good  advice — he  deserved 
what  he  had  got." 

Mr.  Boulger  thought  with  warm  self-satisfac- 
tion how  differently  he'd  have  acted  had  he  been 
in  Tryon's  place.  He'd  have  just  gone  in  at  the 
window,  as  the  fireman  did,  and  then  come  out 
again;  that  would  have  looked  well,  and  would 
have  cost  nothin'.  No.  Tryon  wasn't  really 
smart — he  wasn't;  he  was  rather  stupid;  hard- 
working, yes,  but  slow — dull,  that  was  the  word, 
dull. 

"Would  he  die?     That  was  the  point." 

And  how  would  Georgie  take  it  ?  She'd  get  on 
148 


Frank  Harris 

her  high  horse,  he  felt,  and  play  the  fool;  girls 
always  did;  they  hadn't  any  sense.  Mr.  Boulger 
realised  with  a  sting  of  keen  annoyance  that  he 
could  do  nothing  to  restrain  his  daughter.  Tryon, 
he  felt,  had  got  into  favour  with  the  people  and — 
yes,  that  was  a  good  thing  for  him,  too.  The  in- 
surance companies  would  make  no  fuss  about 
payin'.  Well,  so  far,  at  any  rate,  it  had  gone  all 
right,  and  if  Tryon  had  got  hurt,  'twas  his  own 
fault;  and  if  Georgie  acted  fooHsh,  that  was  her 
business.  After  all,  he  couldn't  force  her  to  be 
sensible. 

With  such  thoughts  as  these  in  his  mind,  Mr. 
Boulger  drew  up  at  his  own  door.  As  he  gave 
the  reins  to  a  negro  boy,  and  thought  of  what  he 
should  say  to  Georgie,  the  popular  feeling  came 
back  to  him  in  all  its  strength,  and  he  resolved  to 
act  as  if  he  admired  Tryon.  And  he  did  admire 
him :  very  few  would  have  done  what  he  did,  and  if 
'twas  foolish,  well,  after  all,  so  far  it  had  done 
no  harm — rather  the  contrary,  in  fact. 

As  he  entered  the  sitting-room,  Georgie  came  to 
meet  him,  startled  by  his  quick  return  and  by  the 
unwonted  seriousness  of  his  manner.  Scarcely  had 
he  begun  his  story,  when  she  interrupted  him : 

"  And  Mr.  Tryon.?  Is  he — .?  "  and  she  flushed 
crimson. 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  answered  her  excitement 
with  direct  narration.  As  soon  as  he  had  finished 
the  story  she  left  the  room  hurriedly.  But  Mr. 
Boulger  went  on  talking;  Tryon's  heroism  im- 
pressed him  while  he  described  it;  he  thought  it 
wise,  too,  to  add  that  though  he  was  insured,  yet, 
149 


Profit  and  Loss 

of  course,  he'd  have  to  lose  something.  'Twould 
take  three  or  four  months,  workin'  night  and  day, 
to  rebuild  the  store;  and,  as  Tryon  was  in  bed, 
he'd  have  to  direct  everythin'  himself.  But  then 
'twould  be  better  done.  So  p'r'aps  'twas  just  as 
well.  His  women-folk  didn't  receive  his  self-gratu- 
lation  as  sympathetically  as  usual,  and  this  made 
Mr.  Boulger  feel  ill  at  ease.  In  truth,  they  were 
more  moved  than  they  cared  to  show.  Ada  felt 
sorry  that  she  had  treated  Tryon  with  contempt; 
perhaps,  she  thought,  if  she  had  encouraged  him  a 

little .     Ivy  regretted  that  she  had  yielded  the 

place  so  quickly  to  Georgle,  and  thought  Georgie 

ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  her,  still .     Mrs. 

Boulger  condescended  to  say  that  the  young  man 
had  acted  very  well — "  'twas  a  pity  he  had  had  no 
advantages."  Then  Georgie  came  into  the  room 
dressed  to  go  out.  "  Let's  go,  father,"  she  said, 
and  at  once  Mr.  Boulger  yielded.  He  felt  'twould 
look  well  to  take  her  in  without  loss  of  time; 
'twould  be  the  right  thing  to  do ;  only 

On  their  way  into  town  the  girl  drew  from  him 
the  whole  story  over  again.  And  Mr.  Boulger 
felt  it  to  be  impossible  to  warn  her,  as  he  had 
meant  to  do.  Her  seriousness  kept  him  at  bay. 
She  shivered  as  she  passed  the  store.  The  smoke 
rising  from  the  roofless  building,  the  height  of  the 
third  storey,  appalled  her.  And  the  glimpse  of 
blue  sky  she  caught  through  the  blackened  win- 
dows chilled  her  with  apprehension.  She  almost 
took  it  as  an  omen. 

They  had  been  in  the  front  room  but  a  moment 
or  two  when  Mrs.  Tryon  came  in.  She  was  calm, 
150 


Frank  Harris 

but  very  pale.  Impulsively  Georgie  took  a  step 
or  two  towards  her,  and  then,  stopping,  burst  into 
tears.  The  mother's  strong,  silent  grief  fright- 
ened her.     But  Mr.  Boulger  said : 

"  Mrs.  Tryon,  we've  come  to  ask  after  Dave;  we 
hope  he's  not  much  hurt.  And  if  we  could  do  any- 
thing for  him,  we " 

"  He's  very  ill,"  Mrs.  Tryon  spoke  quietly, 
"  and  I  mustn't  leave  him  long.  The  doctor  says 
he  may  be — lame  for  life,  even  if  he  ever  recovers. 
And  his  arm's  broken,  too.  But  I  feel  he'll  get 
well;  he  must  get  well.  He's  not  conscious  some- 
times, but  he  lies  quite  still  and  never  complains. 
My  boy !  The  doctor  says  everybody  is  talking  of 
him,"  and  the  mother's  Hp  quivered.  "  But  now 
I  must  go  to  him;  I  hear  him  stirring,"  and  she 
passed  noiselessly  into  the  sick-room. 

Mr.  Boulger  was  so  relieved  to  know  that  Tryon 
lay  quite  still  that  he  felt  almost  grateful  to  him, 
and  forgave  Georgie  her  tears.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments Mrs.  Tryon  returned. 

"He  wants  to  see  you,"  she  said  to  Georgie 
coldly ;  "  but  you  must  take  care  and  not  excite 
him.  The  doctor  said  that  would  be  bad  for  him ; 
and  you  mustn't  cry  nor  make  a  noise."  As  the 
girl  turned  towards  her  a  tear-wet  face,  the  large- 
hearted  woman  added  more  sympathetically, 
"  There,  it'll  be  all  right,  I  guess.  There !  dry 
your  eyes  and  come ;  it'll  do  him  good  to  see  you." 
What  it  cost  her  to  add  the  last  phrase,  only  a 
woman  can  understand. 

With  a  great  effort  Georgie  dried  her  eyes  and 
disappeared  into  the  room  after  Mrs.  Tryon.     The 
151 


Profit  and  Loss 

colloquy  didn't  last  long.     In  ten  minutes  she  was 
again  in  the  buggy  with  her  father. 

"  Well,  what  did  he  say?  " 

"  He — he  only  asked  me  to  read  the  letter  if — 
if  he  died."  Georgie's  eyes  filled  as  she  spoke. 
"  He  looked  terrible — all  black ;  his  mother  says 
that'll  go  off,  but  oh,  I  hope  his  eyebrows  will  grow 
again.  And  he's  so  weak.  Father,  do  you  think 
he'll  ever  get  well?  He  could  scarcely  speak;  he 
just  lay  and  looked  at  us,  and  whispered.  Oh,  I 
l^ope — I  hope  he  won't  die,"  and  again  Georgie 
burst  into  tears.  The  catastrophe  had  not  upset 
her  as  much  as  Mrs.  Tryon's  strong  self-repression 
which  she  felt  was  born  of  dread. 

"  He'll  get  well,  I  guess,"  replied  Mr.  Boulger, 
to  soothe  her.  "  In  a  month  he'll  be  up  and  about 
again ;  but,  Georgie,  remember  you  weren't  to  open 
that  letter  unless  we  both  wanted  you  to.  He 
can't  alter  that  now.  'Twouldn't  be  right,  would 
it?" 

"  Oh,  father !  "  the  girl  cried  reproachfully,  "  I 
must  do  what  he  asked  me.     I  said  I  would." 

"  Well,"  replied  Mr.  Boulger,  "  we'll  have  time 
to  think  over  that."  His  resignation  came  from 
the  sudden  reflection  that  if  Georgie  insisted  upon 
opening  the  letter  he'd  tell  her  that  his  promise 
to  pay  Tryon  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  was 
given  on  condition  that  they  were  married — as  a 
wedding-present,  in  fact. 


159 


Frank  Harris 


About  SIX  weeks  later  Tryon  and  his  bride  were 
seated  side  by  side  near  the  open  window  in  the 
sitting-room  of  his  mother's  house.  Half  reclin- 
ing in  an  easy  chair  with  his  right  arm  in  a  sling, 
he  looked  anything  but  strong.  Yet  though  his 
face  was  thin  and  drawn,  the  eyes  were  bright  and 
a  spot  of  colour  on  the  cheeks  made  him  appear 
better  than  he  was.  He  was  excited  a  little  by  the 
thought  that  this  was  the  day  fixed  for  the  pre- 
sentation by  the  mayor  and  chief  dignitaries  of  the 
city  of  the  cheque  for  five  thousand  dollars  which 
had  been  collected  for  him.  Tryon  felt  no  incon- 
gruity in  this  testimonial  of  respect  and  admira- 
tion. His  direct  and  practical  nature  had  from  the 
beginning  looked  upon  the  saving  of  the  girl  as 
atonement  for  setting  fire  to  the  store.  Whenever 
he  thought  of  that  night,  and  he  thought  of  it  but 
seldom,  for  his  sufferings  and  slow  convalescence 
had  removed  it  into  the  far  past,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  been  punished  more  than  sufficiently. 
It  was  the  future  which  occupied  his  mind. 

Even  on  this  occasion  the  lovers'  talk  was  of 
the  new  store,  for  Georgie's  tenderness  excited  by 
admiration  took  interest  for  the  time  being  only 
in  what  interested  her  lover. 

"  Father  says  everything  shall  be  done  as  you 
wish,  and  the  side-door  you  wanted  near  the  front- 
entrance  is  already  half  made.  It  looks  so  small 
and  cute.  The  foreman  told  me  the  building  goes 
up  three  feet  in  every  twenty-four  hours,  and 
153 


Profit  and  Loss 

there's  not  a  store  east  of  the  Mississippi  river  as 
strongly  built.  He  says  it'll  be  quite  fire-proof," 
and  the  girl  shivered  as  she  spoke. 

"  It'll  be  finished  then  in  twenty  days  more," 
said  Tryon  thoughtfully,  "  and  all  roofed  in  about 
the  time  we're  married;  then  we'll  go  and  see  it, 
won't  we.?  I  want  to  arrange  everything  inside 
myself.  We  must  have  show-room  enough.  When 
goods  are  crowded,  nothin'  looks  well.  I  wish 
'twas  the  twenty-fourth  of  September  to-day; 
don't  you,  Georgie?"  And  he  kissed  her  as  he 
spoke.  The  girl  nodded  her  head,  smiling  with 
eyes  wide  open,  in  tender  joy  and  gladness. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Tryon 
came  in,  followed  by  Mr.  Boulger.  Mrs.  Trj^on 
had  regained  her  usual  cheerful  manner.  Mr. 
Boulger  seemed  handsomer  than  ever.  Clearly 
prosperity  agreed  with  him.  The  truth  was  that 
the  public  feeling  for  Tryon  had  carried  him  away 
on  its  strong  tide.  It  was  impossible  to  his  vanity 
to  be  left  out  of  the  flow  of  expansive  good  feeling. 
And  he  had  thought  of  a  means  of  playing  a  con- 
spicuous part  in  the  honour  about  to  be  paid  to 
Tryon. 

"  Dave,"  he  said  cheerfully  smiling.  "  I  con- 
gratulate you.  Now  you've  got  into  this  room, 
you'll  soon  be  allowed  out  and  then,  then,"  he  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  daughter's  head,  "  you'll 
soon  get  into  the  church,  eh?  And  you  deserve  it 
all.  There's  no  question  about  that.  But  now 
before  the  Mayor  and  Committee  come,  I  want  a 
word  with  you  alone,  and  Mrs.  Tryon  declares 
you'll  be  able  to  bear  it.  Eh,  Mrs.  Tryon?  " 
154 


Frank  Harris 

The  mother  smiled  pleasantly,  and  taking  Geor- 
gie's  arm  left  the  room. 

"Dave,  it's  just  this.  The  insurance  money 
has  all  been  paid,  every  cent.  'Twas  Jenkins 
started  it:  he  got  a  good  advertisement  by  bein' 
the  first.  'The  Banner'  just  whooped  it  right 
along,  talked  of  his  business  energy,  and  all  the 
other  agents  followed  suit  when  the  preachers  be- 
gan gettin'  up  the  subscription  for  you.  The 
money's  all  in  the  bank  now,  and  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  you  I'd  have  left  it  there.  I've  worked  long 
enough,  but  you  want  your  turn,  and  so  the  store's 
bein'  rebuilt.  That'll  cost  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars,  with  fittings  complete.  Fifty 
thousand  dollars  must  stand  for  current  expenses, 
and  I  think  four  hundred  thousand  dollars  '11  be 
enough  for  stock.  Six  hundred  thousand  dollars 
in  all.  Now  what  do  you  say?  I  propose  to  put 
in  the  six  hundred  thousand  and  take  you  in  as 
partner  to  the  extent  of  a  fourth  share  for  the 
note  which  Georgie  has.  I  say  a  fourth  instead  of 
a  fifth  so  as  to  make  up  for  your  salary  as  man- 
ager. I  guess  that's  fair,  ain't  it.?"  (Try on 
nodded.)  "Well,  I've  had  the  deeds  of  partner- 
ship drawn  out  to  be  signed  on  your  marriage  with 
Georgie,  and  I  thought  if  you  were  agreed  I'd  just 
announce  the  fact  to-day.  'Twouldn't  look  well 
if  I  was  the  only  person  to  do  no  thin'  on  such  a 
day  to  show  my  appreciation  of  you.  I  guess 
Boulger,  Tryon  and  Co.  will  do  over  the  entrance, 
eh?"  And  Mr.  Boulger's  face  shone  with  the 
consciousness  of  kindly  generosity. 

For  all  answer  Tryon  held  out  his  left  hand  with 
155 


Profit  and  Loss 

a  smile  of  acceptance.  To  him  the  proposition 
seemed  highly  advantageous;  he  knew  what  he 
could  do  with  the  business,  and  if  it  had  been  re- 
vealed to  him  that  Mr.  Boulger's  chief  reason  for 
making  the  proposal  was  that  he  imagined  he  would 
have  more  control  over  a  junior  partner  than  he 
could  have  over  a  strong-willed  and  popular  man- 
ager who,  with  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  at  his 
back  could  always  set  up  for  himself,  and  might  be- 
come a  dangerous  competitor,  Tryon  would  only 
have  smiled  dryly.  He  knew  that  work  tends  to 
fall  into  the  hands  that  can  do  it. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  street  in  which  the  Try- 
ons  lived  began  to  fill  with  people.  "  The  Banner  " 
had  insisted  upon  the  desirability  of  a  popular 
demonstration  in  honour  of  David  Tryon,  and  the 
people  were  nothing  loath  to  Hghten  the  monoto- 
nous grind  of  life  with  a  new  and  interesting  cele- 
bration. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  waiting  the  crowd  opened 
to  allow  free  passage  to  the  Mayor,  Judge  What- 
ley  of  the  District  Court,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Jack- 
son of  the  First  Episcopal  Church.  As  this  com- 
mittee entered  the  house  the  people  cheered.  After 
the  usual  greetings,  the  Mayor  cleared  his  throat 
and  began  his  speech,  every  word  of  which  was 
heard  through  the  open  windows  by  the  listening 
crowd. 

"  Mr.  Tryon,  it  would  be  impossible,  and  I 
think  it's  unnecessary  for  me  to  tell  you  how  deeply 
your  courage  and  unselfish  heroism  have  moved  the 
hearts  of  your  fellow-citizens.  I  have  never  seen 
anything  like  it.  You  have  had  our  sympathy  in 
156 


Frank  Harris 

your  sufferings;  we  rejoice  in  your  restoration  to 
health.  Sir,  we  feel  that  you  are  an  honour  even  to 
this  great  community,  and  it  has  been  unanimously 
resolved  in  full  City  Council  that  this  committee 
should  express  to  you  our  appreciation  of  your 
conduct  and  should  present  you  with  this  cheque 
for  five  thousand  dollars  as  a  token  of  the  admira- 
tion which  every  citizen  feels  for  your  heroism. 
Sir,  I'm  proud  to  shake  your  hand." 

Having  suited  the  action  to  the  word  the  sturdy 
hardware  manufacturer  moved  a  step  or  two  to  the 
rear  amid  the  cheers  of  the  crowd  outside. 

Judge  Whatley  spoke  briefly  in  much  the  same 
strain,  and  then  amid  the  renewed  cheers  of  the 
populace  Mr.  Jackson  began.  Highly  nervous  and 
vain,  but  intensely  matter-of-fact,  he  had  been  the 
first  to  propose  to  his  congregation  on  the  Sunday 
after  the  fire  to  make  up  for  Tryon's  unmerited 
suffering  by  a  general  subscription.  His  initiative 
had  been  followed;  he  was  now  modestly  elated  by 
his  success  and  the  position  he  held  as  mouthpiece. 
His  reed-like  piping  came  as  a  relief  after  the  loud 
voice  of  the  Mayor,  and  the  hard  high  clearness 
of  the  Judge's  utterance. 

"  I  have  been  sent  here,  Mr.  Tryon,  to  give 
unanimous  expression  to  the  feeling  of  Christians 
and  Christian  teachers  in  regard  to  your  action. 
No  words  of  mine  can  convey  our  admiration  of  it. 
'  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this  that  he  lay 
down  his  life  for  his  friend,'  and  yet  to  save  the 
life  of  a  coloured  girl-child,  a  stranger,  you  im- 
perilled your  life  and  almost  lost  it.  Your  action 
was  an  emanation  from  the  spirit  of  the  Master 
157 


Profit  and  Loss 

himself.  Every  person  in  this  city,  and  many  out- 
side its  limits,  will  be  better  men  and  women  be- 
cause of  your  deed.  That  is  your  reward.  The 
money  subscribed  is  but  an  expression  of  our  ad- 
miration and  gratitude — a  thanks-offering  to  you 
for  an  act  of  Christian  self-sacrifice  and  heroism 
such  as  has  rarely  been  recorded  in  the  annals  of 
Time.  It  is  as  a  Christian  hero  that  we  all  value 
you,  and  hope  that  your  life  may  be  a  long  and 
happy  one." 

Mr.  Jackson's  words  were  listened  to  in  respect- 
ful silence  by  the  crowd,  as  by  those  inside  the 
room.  It  was  felt  with  a  sort  of  astonishment  that 
he  had  "  put  Tryon  away  up,"  and  that  Tryon 
deserved  the  honour  paid  him.  As  Mr.  Jackson 
drew  back,  Tryon  said  simply,  "I  thank  you, 
gentlemen,  for  your  kindness." 

In  the  pause  which  ensued  Mr.  Boulger  found 
his  opportunity.  His  vanity  moved  him  to  speech 
with  irresistible  force ;  his  impressionability  helped 
him  to  words. 

"  Mr.  Mayor  and  Gentlemen, — I'd  like  to  be 
allowed  to  say  a  few  words,  for  in  this  matter  I 
naturally  feel  strongly.  I  know  David  Tryon  well, 
I've  known  him  for  years.  I  was  glad  when  he 
came  to  work  for  me ;  I  advanced  him  from  clerk 
to  cashier,  and  then  made  him  manager,  and  I  can 
say  truly  that  I  had  learned  to  esteem  him  before 
the  fire  took  place.  I  look  upon  him  as  a  hero,  and 
I'm  proud  to  think  he's  going  to  be  my  son-in-law 
and  my  partner.  Yes,  sir,  the  firm  of  Boulger 
will  in  future  be  known  as  Boulger,  Tryon  and  Co. 
I  guess  it'll  get  along  all  right.  Dave's  young, 
158 


Frank  Harris 

but  he's  a  hero,  as  Mr.  Jackson  has  said,  a  Chris- 
tian hero." 

While  Mr.  Boulger  covered  his  inability  to  find 
further  words  by  shaking  the  Mayor  vigorously  by 
the  hand,  Tryon  sat  in  silence.  The  cheering  of 
the  crowd,  the  eulogies  pronounced  upon  his  con- 
duct moved  him  to  momentary  self -question. 

"  A  hero  ?    Had  all  heroes  been  like " 


159 


THE    INTERPRETER 
(A   MERE    EPISODE) 


THE    INTERPRETER 

.(A   MERE   EPISODE) 

IT  was  in  the  entrance  hall  of  the  Hotel  de  Roma 
at  Madrid.  I  had  come  downstairs  to  see  if 
I  could  get  an  interpreter  or  competent  guide 
to  accompany  my  wife  to  the  Museum  of  the 
Prado,  whilst  I  went  off  with  a  Toreador  to  a  rus- 
tic wedding.  There  was  a  man  in  the  hall  who 
rather  puzzled  me ;  he  was  not  well  dressed  enough 
for  a  visitor  to  the  hotel ;  yet  his  eye  did  not  seek 
mine  with  the  servile  solicitation  which  is  the  mark 
of  the  guide  tribe  in  all  civilized  capitals,  nor  did 
he  show  that  dignified  indifference  to  one's  obvious 
wants  which  is,  so  to  say,  the  livery  of  the  Span- 
iard in  quest  of  employment.  He  was  about  the 
middle  height,  of  commonplace  appearance;  but 
there  was  something  in  the  thoughtful  quietude  of 
his  look  and  manner  that  pleased  me.  As  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  speak  to  him,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  speak  in  English :  "  Good  morn- 
ing." 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  he  answered  quietly.  His 
tone  encouraged  me. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  be  an  interpreter  .f^ "  I 
asked. 

"  No,  I  am  not  an  interpreter."  There  was 
something  subdued,  half  melancholy,  in  his  tone, 
but  he  was  a  Spaniard;  the  r's  betrayed  him  un- 
mistakably. 

163 


The  Interpreter 

"  What  a  bore,"  I  said  disconsolately,  turning 
half  aside ;  "  Mazzantini  will  be  waiting  for  me, 
and  I  wanted  some  one  to  go  with  mj  wife  to  the 
Museum." 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  accompany  Madame,"  said 
the  Spaniard,  "  and  if  Madame  cares  for  paint- 
ings, she  will  have  emotions  in  the  Prado." 

"  Thanks,  as  you  are  not  a  guide,  I  must  not 
trouble  you." 

"  I  often  go  with  people  to  the  Prado,"  he  an- 
swered simply. 

"  But  then,"  I  went  on  with  British  love  of  a 
fact,  "  you  must  be  either  an  interpreter  or  a 
guide." 

"  I  am  not  an  interpreter,"  he  replied  abruptly, 
his  manner  almost  rude  as  he  turned  away. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  feeling  my  mistake,  "  at  any 
rate  you  speak  English  better  than  any  Spaniard 
I  have  met,  and  I  dare  say  you  know  more  about 
the  pictures  than  the  ordinary  guide." 

He  turned  to  me,  lifting  his  eyebrows  in  depre- 
cating pity,  and  as  my  wife  appeared  at  the  mo- 
ment, I  confided  her  to  his  charge.  When  we  met 
before  dinner  my  wife  spoke  of  him :  "  Such  a 
strange  man — so  terribly  enthusiastic.  He  bored 
me  to  extinction  about  Velasquez,  and  seemed  quite 
hurt  because  I  could  not  appreciate — '  las  Meni- 
nas,'  yes,  that  was  the  name — a  quite  absurd  pic- 
ture. Polite.?  Oh  yes,  for  a  foreigner  and  a  man 
in  his  position." 

After  this  I  met  the  man  frequently,  and  often 
talked  with  him.  I  found  that  he  knew  a  great 
deal  about  the  Spanish  school  of  painting,  and  es- 
164 


Frank  Harris 

pecially  about  Velasquez  and  Goya ;  but  his  knowl- 
edge was  curiously  fragmentary.  He  had  evi- 
dently divined  more  than  he  had  read,  and  his  ideas 
about  men  and  things  had  grown  to  have  all  the 
weight  of  facts  for  his  mind.  There  was,  too,  a 
curious  mixture  of  self-assertion  and  humility 
about  him  which  I  could  not  account  for.  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  him,  one  evening,  how  he  had  come 
to  learn  so  much  about  painting,  and  especially 
about  Velasquez.  He  went  on  twirling  a  cigarette 
between  his  yellow-stained  fingers,  while  his  little 
brown  eyes  contracted  with  the  effort  of  thinking. 
After  a  pause,  he  said: 

"  I  was  in  the  Prado  every  day,  and  some- 
how or  other  the  little  pictures  grew  hideous  to 
me  and  the  masterpieces  more  and  more  interest- 
ing." 

"  That's  a  rare  experience,"  I  said,  "  but  not 
singular ;  I  have  a  friend  who  declares  that  no  one 
can  really  understand  a  picture  till  he  has  lived 
with  it.  But  of  course  there  are  people  who  can 
appreciate  even  a  masterpiece  at  first  sight."  As 
I  saw  he  didn't  agree  with  me,  I  went  on  probing : 
"  Surely  you  must  have  got  some  of  your  knowl- 
edge from  books?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  indifferently,  "  what  I  knew 
before,  I  found  in  books  and  little  else.  But  most 
people  like  what  they  call  facts,  so  I  read  in  order 
to  get  facts.  But  I  am  so  constituted  that  I  can 
only  remember  such  facts  as  possess  some  vital  or 
spiritual  significance,  so  I  am  not  much  better  off 
for  all  my  reading.  Other  men's  knowledge 
doesn't  help  one  much." 

165 


The  Interpreter 

**  Then  3^ou  have  always  been  a  guide  and  in- 
terpreter? "  I  interrupted. 

He  turned  upon  me  abruptly  in  a  revolt  of  con- 
ceit: 

"  Oh  yes,  Senor,  I  was  an  interpreter  once.  I 
did  not  only  interpret  our  language,  but  the  pic- 
tures of  our  greatest  masters  in  the  Prado  to  ordi- 
nary visitors.  You  know  that  as  a  rule  people 
do  not  see  pictures  at  all  until  their  beauties  have 
been  pointed  out  to  them.  Well,  I  revealed  to 
Englishmen,  Frenchmen  and  Germans  the  immor- 
tal works  of  Zurbaran,  Velasquez,  and  Go^^a.  And 
when  there  were  any  willing  to  listen,  I  went  fur- 
ther and  showed  them  how  these  masters  had  dis- 
covered their  souls  in  their  paintings;  and  thus  I 
interpreted  to  foreign  tourists  the  spiritual  essence 
of  our  greatest.  Ah,  it  was  strange!  For  one 
who  admired  the  strength  and  dignity  of  Zurbaran 
there  were  a  dozen  who  loved  the  brutality  of 
Goya,  and  the  voluptuousness  of  his  may  as;  and 
for  a  score  who  understood  Zurbaran,  there  was 
only  one  to  care  for  the  soul  of  Velasquez,  who  saw 
dwarfs  and  kings,  ministers  and  women,  horses  and 
dogs,  as  God's  sunlight  sees  them.  Curious,  isn't 
it?  that  only  the  noble  can  love  nobility,  and  that 
a  thousand  wanted  me  to  translate  to  them  some 
silly  piece  of  newspaper  scandal  for  one  who 
wished  to  understand  how  Velasquez  felt  towards 
Christ.  ...  I  began  as  a  democrat,"  he  went 
on,  as  if  to  himself,  "  but  I  soon  came  to  hate 
and  despise  the  people.  Nine  men  out  of  ten  have 
no  reverence  in  them,  no  desire  to  learn  and  grow. 
I  used  to  think  rtiy  trade  the  best  in  the  world," 
166 


Frank  Harris 

he  broke  oiF,  — "  in  itself  an  education  that  refines 
and  ennobles.  Yes,  oh  yes,"  he  repeated,  nodding 
his  head,  while  a  sort  of  flush  came  over  his  sallow 
cheeks,  "  I  was  an  interpreter — once." 

In  spite  of  his  self-assertion  the  man  impressed 
me;  I  noticed  now  a  certain  intellectuality  in  his 
breadth  of  brow  and  patient  insistence  in  his  peer- 
ing eyes;  his  mouth,  too,  was  very  sensitive  and 
refined.  But  underneath  my  sympath3^  there  was 
the  prickling  of  vulgar  curiosity,  and  after  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  lighter  talk  I  couldn't  help  asking 
him: 

"  Why  did  you  tell  me  the  first  evening  that 
you  were  not  an  interpreter?  And  why  don't  you 
wear  the  band  on  your  cap  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  nothing. 
I  pressed  him,  and  at  length  he  spoke : 

"  When  the  visitors  found  out  I  was  a  real  in- 
terpreter, they  began  to  recommend  me  to  their 
friends,  and  I  got  constant  employment,  more  than 
I  could  do;  and  as  I  got  money,  I  grew  proud. 
The  proprietor  let  me  have  rooms  in  the  hotel.  .  .  . 

"  One  day,  out  of  the  season,  an  English  gentle- 
man, called  Mr.  Ponsonby,  came  here,  and  after 
spending  a  day  in  his  room,  he  asked  me  what 
there  was  to  do  in  this  dull  place,  and  I  took  him 
to  the  Prado.  He  was  very  affable  and  quick,  and 
liked  all  I  told  him.  He  said  I  ought  to  have  a 
great  reputation,  and  when  I  said  I  thought  I  had, 
he  said  he  did  not  mean  that  sort  of  reputation. 
I  ought  to  write  down  what  I  knew  about  the 
painters,  and  the  book  would  sell,  and  make  me 
a  reputation  throughout  Europe.'  We  passed  the 
16T 


The  Interpreter 

evening  together  in  this  cafe;  see,  at  that  table. 
All  the  next  day,  too,  we  spent  together;  he  did 
not  seem  to  want  to  be  alone;  it  was  so  damned 
dull,  he  said,  without  anyone  to  talk  to.  He  al- 
ways read  the  English  newspapers  as  soon  as  they 
came.  Except  for  that  time,  I  was  with  him  every 
minute  for  three  days. 

"  On  the  fourth  morning,  about  nine  o'clock,  I 
was  in  the  hall  waiting  for  him,  when  suddenly 
there  came  up  to  me  my  sister's  husband's  brother's 
son,  the  youngest  of  the  family.  He  was  in  the 
police  and  had  got  on.  I  had  known  him  as  a 
baby,  and  played  with  him  often;  his  third  name 
was  Jose,  after  me.  We  began  to  talk.  I  asked 
him  about  the  family ;  they  all  live  in  Toledo.  And 
so  we  passed  about  ten  minutes;  then  he  said  to 
me: 

"'Are  you  doing  anything  now.^*  Why  don't 
you  go  and  see  them  ? ' 

"  '  Ah,  no,'  I  replied ;  '  I  stick  to  my  work.  Be- 
sides, I  have  an  English  gentleman  here  now,  who 
takes  me  everywhere  with  him ;  such  a  nice  gentle- 
man, a  Mr.  Ponsonby.' 

"  '  Is  he  in  the  hotel  now  ?  '  he  asked. 

"  '  He  is  in  his  room ;  I  am  waiting  for  him,'  was 
my  answer. 

" '  Take  me  up  to  him,  won't  you  ^  I  think  I 
have  something  to  tell  him — or  something  for  him.' 

"  I  forget  exactly  what  he  said ;  but  I  replied : 
'  All  right,  come  on.' 

"  I  was  sure  Mr.  Ponsonby  would  not  be  angry 
with  me;  he  was  so  pleasant,  and  I,  like  a  vain 
fool,  never  paused  to  think.  We  went  up  to  the 
168 


Frank  Harris 

room,  and  I  knocked  at  the  door.  Mr.  Ponsonby 
asked  sharply:  'Who's  there?'  and  I  said: 

" '  It  is  I,  Mr.  Ponsonby,  your  guide,  Jose, 
who ' 

"  Then  we  heard  him  unlocking  the  door. 

"  As  he  opened  it  I  began :  '  Mr.  Ponsonby,  I 

have  brought ' ;  but  before  I  could  finish,  my 

sister's  husband's  brother's  son  stepped  before  me, 
and  put  his  hand  on  Mr.  Ponsonby's  shoulder,  say- 
ing in  English  (I  did  not  know  he  knew  a  word 
of  it)  : 

"  '  Mr.  Ponsonby  Pigott,  you  must  come  with 
me.' 

"  I  still  did  not  understand,  and  I  was  a  little 
angry  at  being  pushed  aside,  so  I  went  forward 
and  asked  him : 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

"  He  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  and  said :  '  Mr. 
Pigott  understands ;  he  is  my  prisoner.' 

"  Then  I  knew,  and  I  said  to  my  sister's  hus- 
band's brother's  son: 

" '  You  have  made  me  a  spy  like  yourself,  you 
devil.  You  have  made  me  help  to  give  my  friend 
up,  you  low  beast,  you  .  .  .'  and  I  went  on.  I 
was  mad  with  rage,  because  I  felt  the  guilt  in 
myself;  but  Mr.  Ponsonby  Pigott,  he  did  not  re- 
proach me.  He  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman ;  he 
grew  a  little  pale,  that  was  all. 

"  Pointing  to  the  alcove  where  the  bed  stood,  he 
asked  the  detective :  '  May  I  go  to  get  my  brushes 
and  things  ?  ' 

"  I  stepped  in  front  of  the  young  man,  and 
said: 

169 


The  Interpreter 

"  *  Certainly,  Mr.  Ponsonby  Pigott,  you  shall 
get  what  you  like ;  he  does  not  dare  to  disturb  you.' 

"  Oh,  I  was  determined  to  be  a  fine  fool  to  the 
end !  When  he  went  to  the  alcove,  I  turned  to  my 
sister's  husband's  brother's  son,  and  I  spat  on  the 
floor  and  said — What  did  I  not  say?  I  have  not 
forgiven  him;  he  will  see  yet. 

"  All  the  while  I  was  thinking  what  a  brute  I 
had  been  and  fool,  to  be  outwitted  by  a  boy.  Sud- 
denly there  came  a  click,  and — as  the  detective 
rushed  past  me — the  bang  of  a  revolver.  When 
we  got  to  the  alcove,  there  he  lay,  Mr.  Ponsonby 
who  had  been  so  kind  to  me,  all  huddled  up  on  the 
floor — with  his  brains  scattered  on  the  pillow  and 
the  wall — dead. 

"  Then  I  knew  what  I  had  done,  and  I  turned 
and  went  out  of  the  room,  and  in  the  hall  they  all 
met  me,  and  asked: 

"  *  What  is  the  matter.  Interpreter.?  ' 

"  And  I  took  the  band  on  my  cap  with  *  Inter- 
preter '  on  it,  and  I  tore  it  off  my  cap,  and  I  said : 

"  '  I  am  no  interpreter,  I  am  a  fool.' 

"  I  went  out  crying 


"  Yes,  I've  heard  he  was  a  forger  and  a  cheat ; 
he  may  have  been  a  bad  man ;  but  whatever  crimes 
he  committed,  there  was  something  kindly  in  him 
and  noble ;  at  all  events  he  knew  when  to  die.   .  .  . 

"  I  was  greatly  to  blame,  greatly ;  I  was  too 
self-sufficient  and  proud.  That  is  why  I  will  never 
wear  the  badge  again  nor  call  myself  an  inter- 
preter. I  am  not  worthy  of  the  name ;  but  if  Mr. 
ITO 


Frank  Harris 

Pigott  had  liked  me  as  I  liked  him,  and  trusted 
me,  I  would  have  hidden  him  away  here  in  Madrid, 
so  that  they  would  never  have  found  him,  never.  I 
cannot  bear  to  think  of  it  now,  he  was  so  pleasant 
and  kind " 


171 


SONIA 


SONIA 

IT  was  a  chance  meeting — pure  chance,  if  indeed 
there  is  such  a  thing.  I  was  giving  a  sort  of 
farewell  dinner  to  people  I  had  met  in  Mu- 
nich ;  in  another  ten  minutes  I  should  have  been  in 
my  own  room  and  have  missed  her.  She  had  only 
stopped  with  her  mother  to  rest  for  the  night  on 
the  way  from  Paris  to  Vienna  and  had  come  down- 
stairs by  chance — chance? 

How  well  I  remember  the  meeting!  It  was  in 
the  smoking-room  of  the  Vierjahreszeiten  Hotel. 
A  couple  of  professors,  some  men  from  the  em- 
bassies, and  a  captain  of  Uhlans  had  been  dining 
with  me.  The  dinner  had  been  dull ;  our  talk  had 
gradually  degenerated  into  spasmodic  remarks; 
and  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  French  attache  to 
be  witty  in  a  language  he  had  only  a  smattering  of, 
I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  specialists  do 
not  make  good  company,  when  suddenly  I  saw  a 
face — a  girl's  face — looking  through  the  upper 
part  of  the  glass  door.  It  disappeared,  and  I  was 
just  hoping  that  my  guests  would  go  away  soon 
when  the  door  opened  and  the  girl  came  into  the 
room  and  took  a  seat  at  the  table  almost  opposite 
me.  The  room  was  a  public  room,  usually  used 
for  smoking  and  coffee,  but  in  Germany  one  does 
not  expect  to  see  a  young  woman  act  with  inde- 
pendence and  I  was  a  little  surprised.  The  curious 
part  of  the  matter  is  that  from  the  moment  she 
175 


Son 


ta 


entered  I  remember  everything  that  happened — 
every  word  she  said,  each  of  her  slightest  gestures 
— with  extraordinary  vividness.  At  first  she  was 
silent.  She  merely  drew  the  black  lace  mantilla 
she  was  wearing  a  little  further  forward  on  her 
head  and  then  let  her  eyes  rest  for  a  moment  or 
two,  first  on  one  man  and  then  on  the  next.  There 
was  nothing  impertinent  in  her  scrutiny,  no  curi- 
osity even;  the  glance  seemed  merely  meditative 
and  impersonal;  but  the  French  attache  instinct- 
ively twisted  his  moustache  to  a  bolder  curve. 
When  the  eyes  that  had  travelled  round  the  half 
circle  met  mine,  I  was  curiously  interested.  Was 
it  the  girl's  indifference  to  the  other  men  that 
piqued  me.''  or  was  there  something  really  impres- 
sive in  her  calm  self-possession? 

My  looks  must  have  betrayed  the  interest  I  felt 
in  her;  for  she  suddenly  spoke  to  me  in  French, 
"  You're  not  a  German,  are  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied  in  the  same  tongue,  "  I  am 
English.  These  gentlemen  are  guests  of  mine." 
Then  taking  my  courage  in  both  hands,  I  added, 
"  If  I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  name,  I 
would  introduce  them  to  you." 

"  No,  please  not,"  she  said,  quickly  disposing  of 
my  attempt  to  bring  my  friends  into  the  conversa- 
tion ;  "  I  am  glad  you  are  English ;  I  have  wanted 
to  know  an  Englishman  for  a  long  time."  She 
spoke  quickly,  but  with  long  pauses  between  the 
sentences ;  the  effect  was  to  heighten  one's  interest 
in  what  she  was  saying. 

"  I  hope  I  may  consider  that  as  a  compliment," 
I  replied  inanely.  I  never  talked  so  stupidly  as  to 
176 


Frank  Harris 

this  girl  on  whom  already  I  wished  to  make  a  good 
impression. 

"  Scarcely,"  she  retorted  with  imperturbable 
seriousness ;  "  the  reverse,  I  think." 

"  Really,"  I  exclaimed  in  amazement,  "  may  I 
ask  why  ?  " 

"It  is  plain ;  but — your  guests  are  going." 

And  so  they  were.  Headed  by  the  French  at- 
tache, with  his  "  c/i^r,"  and  "  combien  je  regrette,'' 
and  his  bow  that  passed  to  the  lady  with  a  deep 
inclination  of  respectful  reproach,  they  all  took 
their  leave.  They  had  scarcely  disappeared  when 
I  turned  to  speak  to  her  again.  But  that  was  not 
her  humour.  Solemnly  rising  opposite  me,  she 
drew  her  heels  together  and  bowed  to  me  as  if 
she  had  a  hinge  in  her  back  with  such  an  exact 
imitation  of  the  German  captain's  salute  that  I 
could  not  help  laughing.  She  laughed  too — mer- 
rily, like  a  child. 

"  What  strange  people,"  she  cried.  "  What 
strange  people.  Did  you  ever  see  such  marion- 
ettes.?" 

"  They  are  a  little  stiff,"  I  admitted,  "  but  you 
were  going  to  tell  me  why  you  don't  like  English- 
men." 

"  I  don't  know  any  Englishmen,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  me  with  frank  directness,  "  and  from  what 
I  have  read  about  them,  I'm  afraid  I  should  not 
like  them.    I'm  afraid  not,"  she  repeated  decisively. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked;  and  while  she 

set  to  work  to  answer  me,  I  took  the  opportunity 

of  looking  at  her  in  order  to  make  up  my  mind 

whether  she  was  really  good-looking  or  not.     I 

177 


Sonia 

knew  already — her  walk  and  movements  showed — 
that  she  had  a  good  figure ;  but  her  complexion  was 
tallowy,  as  if  she  had  lived  much  in  close  rooms, 
and  it  took  more  than  one  glance  to  see  that  her 
features  were  good.  Perhaps  the  oval  of  the  face 
was  too  round  for  beauty — the  forehead  was  cer- 
tainly too  broad — but  the  eyes  were  really  fine,  a 
clear  hazel  flecked  with  gold,  which  doesn't  at  all 
explain  the  impression  they  gave  of  transparent 
sincerity  and  courage.  Her  staccato  manner  of 
speaking  with  long  pauses  between  each  sentence 
became  more  marked,  I  noticed,  when  the  subject 
matter  interested  her. 

"The  French — we  know  what  they  are,"  she 
began.  "  Nothing  will  ever  alter  them.  The  Ger- 
mans, too,  we  know ;  they  are  all  like  that," — with 
a  gesture  that  seemed  to  people  again  the  empty 
room.  "  But  the  English  are  hard  to  know  well. 
They  have  done  great  things  in  the  past — brought 
political  liberty  into  life  and  built  up  a  great  em- 
pire; but  one  feels  as  if  their  work  were  finished. 
Don't  you  know  what  I  mean.?  A  selfish  indi- 
vidualism is  the  soul  of  them — the  characteristic — 
and  that  is  not  what  we  want  to-day." 

I  was  more  than  interested,  I  was  much  aston- 
ished and  half  annoyed  at  her  frank  if  somewhat 
doctrinaire  criticism. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  mean,"  I  re- 
plied. "What  do  you  find  us  lacking  in?  We 
don't  seem  yet  to  have  failed  in  the  world,"  I 
added,  with  more  composure,  feeling  that  at  last 
I  had  got  on  safe  ground. 

"That's  just  it,"  she  retorted  quickly,  laying 
178 


Frank  Harris 

her  hand  on  the  table,  "  you  are  successful,  and 
therefore  satisfied,  as  if  material  success  and  con- 
tentment were  not  a  proof  of  spiritual  failure." 

"  Now  I'm  afraid  you  have  got  beyond  me,"  I 
replied,  and,  half  to  cover  my  pique,  I  forced  a 
smile,  "  unless,  indeed,  you  will  mention  a  nation 
that  has  failed  materially  and  yet  been  a  spiritual 
success." 

"  Athens,"  she  cried,  with  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment. (Her  eyes  were  magnificent.)  "  And  Judea 
— they  both  speak  to  the  soul  and  are  more  in- 
teresting to  humanity  than  Rome,  for  instance, 
with  its  insensate  pride  and  lust  of  domination." 

I  was  silenced,  if  not  convinced.  No  satisfac- 
tory reply  suggesting  itself  at  the  moment,  I 
tried  to  make  our  talk  lighter,  more  personal,  by 
asking : 

"  And  what  countrywoman  are  you.^  " 

"  Guess,"  she  threw  out  with  a  smile. 

"  I  am  at  a  loss,"  I  replied  hesitatingly.  "  You 
are  dark,  and  might  be  a  Spaniard  from  the  man- 
tilla. But  you  have  no  accent  in  French  and  none 
in  German  that  I  can  distinguish.     I  am  puzzled." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said,  "  I  have  an  ac- 
cent in  German — a  strong  accent.  I  am  a  Rus- 
sian." 

"A  Russian.  Strange!  I'm  going  to  Russia 
soon."  Her  look  of  interest  exciting  me,  I  went 
on :  "A  teacher  at  Oxford  put  the  idea  into  my 
head;  an  odd  mixture,  he  is,  of  art-critic  and 
socialist." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  you  would  scarcely  have  heard  of  him, 
179 


Sonia 

and  yet  he's  interesting ;  his  name's  Ruskin ;  a  sort 
of  professor  at  Oxford,  and  a  wonderful  writer." 

"  So,"  she  said,  "  he  has  sympathies  with  the 
poor,  has  he  ?  " 

"  The  deepest  sympathy ;  he  gave  nearly  aU  his 
fortune  away  to  them  and  preached  a  sort  of  new 
crusade  in  their  favour." 

"An  Englishman.?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  I  replied  warmly.  "  There's 
nothing  strange  in  that,  surely.  Everyone  must 
admit  that  we  have  done  more  for  the  poor  than 
any  other  nation." 

"  We  knew  you  had  more  to  do,"  she  replied, 
and  then  after  a  long  pause,  she  added,  "  but  not 
that  you  had  done  more." 

"  I  wish  you  knew  Ruskin,"  I  went  on,  feeling 
that  his  fine  personality  gave  me  the  best  chance 
of  interesting  her.  "  He  is  all  enthusiasm  and  un- 
selfishness— a  remarkable  man.  He  had  a  great 
influence  at  Oxford  and  did  a  lot  of  good." 

"And  now  you  are  coming  to  Russia.?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  a  sort  of  farewell  dinner  I  was 
giving." 

"  Then  you  are  coming  at  once?  " 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  a  young 
man  entered  the  room.  The  girl  presented  him 
simply — "  My  brother ;  "  we  bowed  and  shook 
hands.  One  thing  was  sure ;  he  was  utterly  unlike 
his  sister.  She  was  tall  and  graceful,  whereas  he 
was  below  the  average  height  and  very  slight.  A 
little,  thin,  nervous  apparition  with  the  tiniest 
hands,  and  dressed  with  excessive  care  like  a 
French  dandy. 

180 


Frank  Harris 

His  sister  wont  on,  "  This  gentleman  is  thinking 
of  coming  to  Russia  to  learn  Russian  and  he  is  in- 
terested in  social  questions.  We  are  too,  are  we 
not,  Andre?  "  and  she  put  her  arm  caressingly  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  You  are,"  he  said  smiling;  the  glance  was  sym- 
pathetic and  made  me  like  him.  ^  i 

I  don't  know  why,  but  the  entrance  of  this  new 
person  on  the  scene  seemed  to  remove  the  girl 
from  me,  and  I  was  surprised  to  find  resentment 
in  me  at  the  discovery.  I  determined  to  do  my 
best  to  keep  up  the  acquaintance. 

"  I  was  telling  your  sister,"  I  began,  "  that  I 
was  just  leaving  Munich  to  go  to  Russia.  I  hope 
we  may  meet  there." 

"  But  if  you  are  going  soon,"  she  said,  "  why 
not  go  with  us?  We  are  leaving  for  Vienna  this 
evening  by  the  express." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  young  man,  nodding  in  answer 
to  my  look  of  inquiry,  "  why  not  come  with  us?  " 

"  But  you  have  probably  a  father  or  a  mother 
who  might  object  to  my  intrusion." 

"Oh,  no,"  the  girl  broke  in,  "my  mother  is 
resting  upstairs,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  would  be 
glad  if  you  would  come  with  us.  And  then  we 
might  learn  more  about  Ruskin  and  his  socialistic 

ideas."  nw   t   • 

"Are  you   sure  she  wouldn't   object?      I  m- 

sisted. 

"  Of  course,  I'm  sure ;  but  I  will  write  and  ask 
her  and  show  you  what  she  says.     Then  you  will 
know."     She  turned  to  the  table   and  drew  the 
writing  materials  towards  her. 
181 


Sonia 

"  You  see,"  the  brother  said,  smiling  to  me, 
"  everyone  does  what  Sonia  wants.  She  always 
has  her  own  way,  and  it  is  generally  a  good  way." 

As  he  spoke,  the  girl  turned  round  blushing 
vividly  and  looking  wonderfully  pretty.  "  Now, 
Andrushka,  you  are  praising  me  and  that's  not 
allowed.  Besides,  if  you  talk  about  me  how  can 
I  write  my  letter.?  I  must  listen;"  and  she 
laughed  at  the  implied  confession. 

A  moment  later  she  had  rung  the  bell  and  given 
the  note  to  the  waiter. 

"  Now  tell  me  of  your  Ruskin,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing round  in  her  chair.  "  He  interests  me.  He 
must  be  like  a  man  I  knew  in  Petersburg,  who  had 
a  great  influence  on  me,  MichailofF.  He  was  a 
great  man  in  some  ways,  a  great  intelHgence,  but 
he  was  not  good." 

"  Ah,"  I  said,  "  Ruskin  is  good.  That's  per- 
haps the  secret  of  his  power."  Somehow  or  other, 
I  felt  that  I  was  carrying  my  audience  with  me  in 
my  enthusiasm  and  the  impulse  to  continue  over- 
came me.  "  His  belief  comes  from  the  heart  and 
he  is  not  afraid  to  speak  to  the  heart."  (She 
:  nodded  with  quick  approval. )  "  In  one  of  his  lec- 
tures at  Oxford — a  lecture  to  a  thousand,  irrev- 
erent under-graduates — I  remember  he  paused  in 
the  middle  of  something  he  was  saying  and  turned 
upon  us  with  the  words,  '  We  should  all  be  fre- 
quent in  breaking  bread  with  the  poor.'  The  ef- 
fect was  extraordinary;  one  felt  that  Jesus  must 
have  spoken  like  that. 

"  It  was  he  who  put  the  idea  into  my  head  of 
studying   social   questions   on   the   Continent;   he 


Frank  Harris 

thought  that  the  student,  like  the  apprentice, 
should  have  his  Wander jahre.''* 

At  this  moment  the  German  waiter  came  in  and 
handed  the  girl  a  note.  After  one  glance  at  it 
she  handed  it  to  me.  It  was  from  her  mother  and 
this  is  how  it  began:  "Je  serai  charmee  de  faire 
la  connaissance  d'un  Anglais;  ils  sont  si  comme- 
il-faut.     Ton  ami  sera  le  bienvenu.  .  .  ." 

"  You  see,"  said  Sonia  quietly,  "  my  mother  has 
answered  as  I  knew  she  would.  Now  you  will 
come,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  come  to-night,"  I  replied.  "  I 
have  to  pack  and  some  friends  to  see;  but  I  will 
follow.  If  you  will  tell  me  the  hotel  you  are  going 
to  in  Vienna,  I  will  follow  you — in  forty-eight 
hours  at  most." 

At  this  they  both  rose:  the  brother  seemed  too 
nervous  to  sit  still  for  any  length  of  time. 

"  Your  Ruskin  interests  me,"  the  girl  said 
quietly,  "  and  you  interest  me  more,  for  you  may 
act  while  he  has  only  talked  or  written."  (She 
spoke  without  a  trace  of  coquetry. )  "I  shall  be 
glad  to  see  you  in  Vienna.  I  am  glad  already  that 
I  did  not  obey  my  first  impulse  and  run  away  when 
I  looked  through  the  door  and  saw  you  all  sitting 
there  like  automatons,  so  stiff  and  prim,"  and  she 
laughed  again  at  the  recollection. 

"Did  you  really  feel  shy?"  I  asked.  "You 
seemed  perfectly  composed." 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  replied ;  "  shyness  is  childish. 
One  has  to  conquer  those  impulses,  don't  you 
think.?" 

Since  I  had  talked  of  Ruskin,  her  manner  had 
183 


oma 


grown    quite    friendly,    and   the    change   pleased 
me. 

At  this  moment  her  brother  opened  the  door, 
and  she  passed  out  of  the  room  with  the  words, 
"  The  Ring  Hotel,  Wednesday  afternoon,"  on  her 
lips.  I  stood  looking  after  her,  feehng  as  if  some 
of  the  brightness  had  gone  out  of  the  air  and  the 
warmth.  .  .  . 

Until  that  day  I  had  never  thought  myself  very 
impressionable,  but  I  was  now  to  learn  the  extra- 
ordinary influence  a  girl  could  exercise  on  me  after 
a  single  meeting.  At  first  I  seemed  to  feel  noth- 
ing but  surprise  at  her  intelligence.  We  had  only 
talked  for  a  short  time  and  yet  she  had  astonished 
me ;  was  "  material  success  "  really  "  a  proof  of 
spiritual  failure?"  as  she  had  said.  I  could  not 
believe  that;  it  seemed  a  paradox  to  me,  and  yet 
a  paradox  full  of  disquieting  possibilities.  She 
had  evidently  peculiar  standards.  The  talk  about 
Ruskin  had  touched  her  emotions;  was  he  her 
ideal?  Hardly.  Almost  her  last  words  showed 
that  she  preferred  men  of  action  to  writers  or 
speakers.  And  then  my  thought  passed  to  her 
confession  that  when  she  first  looked  into  the  room 
she  had  felt  too  shy  to  enter  it,  and  I  dwelt  on  that ; 
it  seemed  to  bring  her  closer  to  me.  Her  manner, 
too,  had  been  wholly  womanly  and  sympathetic 
when  she  told  me  she  would  be  glad  to  see  me  in 
Vienna.  I  kept  recalling  this  and  her  delicious 
shyness,  and  her  vivid  blushing  under  her  brother's 
praise.  In  spite  of  her  intellect,  she  was  a  woman 
— charming.  I  wanted  to  see  her  again ;  I  would 
go  to  the  train  to  see  them  off,  I  thought.  No, 
184) 


Frank  Harris 

that  would  appear  too  marked  an  attention.  I 
mustn't  make  a  fool  of  myself ;  I  didn't  know  who 
she  was,  nor  her  name  even.  But  I  should  like  to 
know  what  she  meant  exactly,  when  she  said  that  I 
might  act;  as  if  deeds  were  more  than  any  speech 
or  book.     What  sort  of  action  did  she  mean?  .   .  . 

I  went  out  for  my  usual  walk  in  the  afternoon, 
but  I  walked  as  one  in  a  dream.  I  could  not  help 
recalling  her  words,  her  rare  gestures,  her  looks — 
every  glance  had  meaning  in  it.  By  the  way,  what 
a  funny  trick  of  speaking  she  had;  nervously 
abrupt  and  quick,  with  long  pauses.  Was  that 
like  her  shjmess,  an  impulse  held  in  rein  by  reason.? 
And  why  was  shyness  so  wonderful  and  charming 
in  \iQV?  In  was  common  enough  in  other  girls  and 
in  them  rather  uninteresting.  The  whole  charm 
lay,  of  course,  in  the  magic  of  her  personality. 
She  might  be  anyone,  I  felt,  or  do  anything.  I 
could  not  quite  understand  her,  and  that  excited 
me.  .  .  . 

Why  should  I  not  go  to  the  train?  She  had 
been  perfectly  frank  with  me;  why  should  I  not 
be  as  ingenuous  with  her?  I  wanted  to  go;  that 
was  certain.  I  wanted  to  see  her  again ;  to  feel 
the  cool,  firm  hand,  and  win  from  her,  if  possible, 
another  expression  of  interest  in  me.  Yes,  that 
was  it.  I  desired  this  girl's  interest  and  her  praise 
more  than  I  ever  desired  praise  from  anybody  in 
my  life.  I  felt  that  what  she  said  would  be  ab- 
solutely sincere.  That  was  not  love,  I  said  to 
myself ;  it  was  the  effect  her  nature  made  on  mine. 
In  reality  I  wanted  praise.  I,  go  to  the  station. 
It  was  silly  not  to  go.  I,  meet  them  on  the  plat- 
185 


Sonia 

form  with  some  flowers — one  bunch  for  the  mother 
and  one  for  the  girl.  That  would  make  it  look  all 
right.  I,  hurry  back  and  get  the  flowers.  .  .  . 
I  was  on  the  platform  waiting  for  them  before 
the  train  was  made  up.  I  had  a  Dienstmann  with 
me  carrying  my  bouquets,  and  had  already  paid 
him  and  given  him  most  definite  instructions  to 
make  himself  scarce,  the  moment  I  took  the  flowers 
from  him,  when  suddenly  I  saw  them  coming  to- 
wards me.  They  were  almost  the  first  arrivals, 
and  walking  towards  them  I  thought,  "we  shall 
have  quite  ten  minutes  together."  The  mother 
was  being  wheeled  along  in  a  chair,  and  the  daugh- 
ter w^as  walking  by  her  side.  The  old  lady  was 
very  stout  and  seemed  almost  incapable  of  moving, 
but  her  eyes  were  bright  and  intelligent — ^hazel 
too,  though  far  smaller  than  her  daughter's ;  and 
as  soon  as  the  daughter  presented  me  with,  "  This 
is  the  gentleman,  mother,"  she  told  me  in  very 
perfect  French  that  she  was  glad  to  see  me  and 
still  more  glad  to  think  that  I  should  meet  them 
in  Vienna  and  go  with  them  to  their  place  near 
Petersburg. 

"  I  am  a  great  invalid,"  she  went  on,  "  but  Sonia 
and  Andre  will  keep  you  company,  and  if  you  want 
to  learn  Russian,  it  is  certainly  dull  enough  at 
to  learn  anything." 

Of  course  I  thanked  her  and  said  how  sorry  I 
was  to  see  that  she  was  not  strong,  but  she  inter- 
rupted me  briskly: 

"  Oh,  I  am  strong,  quite  strong ;  it  is  my  body 
that  is  weak,  and  above  all  lazy— very  lazy,"  and 

she  laughed. 

186 


Frank  Harris 

"  Mother  says  that,"  said  Sonia,  "  but  she  is 
indeed  ailing.  You  know  you  were  very  ill  in 
Paris,  mother." 

"  Ah,  dear  Paris,"  repeated  the  old  lady,  with  a 
sigh,  "  how  I  love  it,  with  its  frivolity  and  gaiety. 
It  is  all  so  pleasant  to  me.  There  seems  to  be  no 
winter  there,  and  in  Russia  it  is  all  winter  and 
solitude,  and  I  hate  it." 

"  You  see,"  said  the  girl  gravely,  "  mother  is 
scarcely  a  Russian.  She  speaks  very  little  Rus- 
sian; she  lived  nearly  all  her  youth  in  Paris;  her 
father  was  in  the  Embassy  there.  I  often  say 
she  is  not  a  Russian  or  she  could  not  speak  of  Rus- 
sia as  she  does." 

"  Of  course,"  retorted  the  mother  with  a  comical 
little  smile,  "  children  nowadays  know  more  than 
their  parents.  But  I  must  be  getting  into  the 
train.     I  am  very  heavy  and  almost  helpless." 

In  a  few  minutes  we  had  got  her  into  the  car- 
riage and  settled  her  among  books  and  wraps,  and 
then  for  the  first  time  I  remembered  my  flowers 
and  handed  her  a  bouquet,  which  brought  forth 
voluble  thanks.  She  loved  flowers,  she  said;  it 
was  so  kind  of  me  to  think  of  them ;  an  old  woman 
was  not  used  to  such  attentions,  and  so  forth. 

My  opportunity  had  come.  Turning  to  the 
girl,  I  gave  her  the  other  bouquet,  and  in  a  voice 
which  I  made  as  matter  of  course  as  possible,  asked 
her  to  walk  up  the  platform  with  me.  With  rare 
opportuneness,  the  brother  had  gone  off  to  get 
papers,  and  without  a  word  Sonia  turned  from  the 
carriage  and  I  was  alone  with  her.  I  hardly  knew 
how  to  begin. 

187 


Sonia 

"You  love  Russia,"  I  said,  still  under  the  Im- 
pression of  the  feeling  with  which  she  had  spoken. 

She  turned  to  me  and  nodded  slowly. 

"  Yes,  I  love  it,"  she  said.  "  I  love  it  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul."  After  a  pause  she  went  on, 
"  our  peasants  call  it  '  Holy  Russia,'  you  know, 
and  to  us  it  is  even  more  than  that.  The  other 
European  nations  are  uninteresting.  What  they 
have  done,  they  will  do  again;  their  course  is 
traced;  the  orbit  known.  Their  future  will  be  as 
common  as  their  past.  But  everything  is  possible 
to  Russia.  If  humanity  is  ever  to  do  or  be  any- 
thing great,  if  men  are  ever  to  rise  to  the  possi- 
bihties  in  them  and  live  noble  lives.  It  must  be  In 
Russia.  She  is  the  last  of  the  European  nations 
to  enter  into  her  birthright.  How  can  one  help 
loving  her,  '  Holy  Russia ! '  " 

She  spoke  with  extraordinary  passion ;  but  what 
she  said  was  too  reasoned  and  decided,  I  thought ; 
It  seemed  to  put  a  great  distance  between  us;  I 
hardly  knew  how  to  answer  her.  The  conversation 
went  lamely  afterwards,  and  in  a  minute  or  so 
the  bell  rang.  As  she  entered  the  carriage,  she 
said: 

"  I  shall  be  looking  for  you  on  Wednesday  after- 
noon.    You  are  sympathetic." 

Perhaps  it  was  her  foreign  phrase  that  made 
me  act  like  a  foreigner;  I  bowed  my  head  to  her 
and  kissed  her  hand,  and  the  next  moment  she  was 
In  the  train  and  had  taken  her  seat.  I  remember 
shaking  hands  with  her  brother;  but  she  did  not 
come  to  the  window,  and  I  went  away  from  the 
station  with  a  vision  In  my  mind  of  her  first  ap- 
188 


Frank  Harris 

pearance  as  I  saw  her  walking  by  the  side  of  her 
mother's  chair,  tall  and  graceful. 

When  I  thought  over  this  meeting  I  was  dis- 
appointed ;  nothing  new  had  come  to  me  from  her. 
The  truth  probably  was  that  I  had  already  been 
moved  so  intensely  in  the  afternoon  that  my  feel- 
ings were  incapable  of  receiving  another  new  and 
profound  impression  of  the  same  sort  in  the  even- 
ing. But  still  her  strength  of  character  and 
passionate  enthusiasm  were  clearer  to  me  than  they 
had  been.  Her  soul  appeared  to  me  like  a  flame 
of  extraordinary  steadiness  and  height.  An  as- 
tonishing girl,  I  said  to  myself,  most  astonish- 
ing! 

As  my  stay  in  Munich  drew  to  an  end  I  began 
to  dwell  more  and  more  on  the  womanly  and  charm- 
ing side  of  her  character,  and  especially  on  the 
interest  she  seemed  to  take  in  me;  and  so  I  culti- 
vated, I  suppose,  the  growth  of  a  similar  feeling 
in  myself.  All  through  life  we  are  merely  chil- 
dren, and  turn  naturally  to  what  is  sweet  to  us; 
but  my  longing  for  the  pleasant  fruit  was  checked 
by  a  sort  of  natural  caution.  I  could  see  that  my 
new  friends  were  people  of  some  importance,  but 
I  resolved  to  find  out  much  more  about  them  before 
I  committed  myself  definitely,  and  thus  I  lulled  my 
inborn  prudence  to  rest. 

On  the  Wednesday  morning,  when  I  got  into 
the  train,  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  my  usual 
indiflPerence  had  deserted  me.  I  was  so  unnatur- 
ally eager  that  every  now  and  again  I  had  to  laugh 
at  my  own  impatience.  I  took  no  interest  in  what 
went  on  about  me;  in  imagination  I  was  already 
189 


Sonta 

at  the  goal,  standing  before  her,  looking  Into  her 
eyes,  touching  her  hands.  And  so  I  lived  in  my 
dream-paradise,  shutting  out  as  far  as  I  could 
the  banalities  of  the  railway  journey.  As  soon 
as  I  had  unpacked  my  luggage  and  made  myself 
decent,  I  got  the  waiter  to  take  me  to  their  sitting- 
room.  In  a  moment  Sonia  was  before  me,  holding 
out  both  hands  to  me.  I  took  them  in  some  sur- 
prise ;  the  mute  appeal  was  so  intense ;  but  her  first 
words  explained  everything. 

"  He  is  so  ill,"  she  cried.  "  Andrushka.  I  was 
afraid ;  but  now  you  have  come,  it  will  all  be  right," 
and  she  sighed  with  relief. 

"  111 !  "  I  repeated.  "  Sit  down  and  tell  me 
about  it.  What  is  the  matter?  When  did  it  be- 
gin?" 

"  He  must  have  caught  cold,"  she  replied. 
"  You  know  he  has  always  been  very  delicate,  and 
he  won't  take  care  of  himself.  We  reached 
Vienna  very  early  on  Tuesday  morning;  it  was 
cold,  and  he  must  have  caught  a  chill,  for  In  the 
afternoon  he  complained  of  headache  and  pains  in 
his  limbs,  so  I  put  him  to  bed  and  sent  for  a 
doctor.  But  the  fever  has  increased ;  his  tempera- 
ture rose  all  through  the  night,  and  though  It  is 
supposed  to  go  down  a  little  in  the  morning,  it  has 
not  gone  down  but  gone  up,  ever  since  the  begin- 
ning, and  the  doctor  looks  very  grave." 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes.  I  wanted  to  take  her 
In  my  arms  and  console  her,  and  the  Impulse  was 
so  strong  that  I  rose  to  my  feet  in  order  by  brusque 
movement  to  throw  it  off. 

"What  does  the  doctor  call  It?"  I  asked. 
190 


Frank  Harris 

"  Dangerous  fevers  don't  come  like  that  in  a  day 
from  any  ordinary  chill." 

"  You  will  see  the  doctor,"  she  replied.  "  He 
will  be  back  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  you  must  ask 
him.     But  since  you  have  come  I  am  less  anxious." 

She  spoke  like  a  child,  a  tired  child,  and  as  I 
took  in  the  weariness  of  her  face,  I  said : 

"  You  have  been  up  all  night.  You  have  not 
changed  your  clothes,  I  am  sure.  Now  go  away 
at  once  and  change.  Then  you  must  come  back 
and  have  some  tea." 

She  nodded  her  head  again  like  a  child  and  smiled 
faintly  as  she  passed  into  the  room  on  the  other 
side  of  the  sitting-room.  In  half  an  hour  she  was 
back  again  looking  far  brighter  and  better.  We 
had  tea  together,  and  I  for  one  enjoyed  it.  Then 
began  for  us  a  perpetual  interchange  of  emotions, 
a  partnership  of  hopes  and  fears  which  gradually 
drew  us  closer  and  closer  in  sympathy  and  mutual 
comprehension. 

I  saw  at  once  that  her  love  for  her  brother  had 
made  her  excessively  anxious  about  him ;  the  quick- 
ness of  her  intelligence  acting  on  her  ignorance 
of  disease  had  frightened  her  so  that  she  dreaded 
the  worst  before  there  was  any  cause  for  anxiety. 
Of  course,  I  set  myself  to  combat  her  fears  and  give 
her  confidence,  and  I  got  the  German  doctor  to  help 
me.  At  first  he  wanted  to  make  out  that  the  case 
was  serious.  All  doctors  do  this,  I  think;  it  ex- 
alts one's  opinion  of  their  skill  if  the  patient  re- 
covers, and  if  he  chance  to  die — well,  the  doctor  is 
safe,  for  at  the  very  beginning  he  said  it  was  seri- 
ous. But  pushed  into  a  comer,  the  doctor  had  to 
191 


Son 


la 


admit  that  dangerous  fevers  are  generally  of  long 
inception ;  and  that  young  Andre  was  probably 
suffering  from  nothing  but  a  feverish  attack 
which  would  pass  off  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had 
come.  I  was  more  than  repaid  for  all  my  ef- 
forts when  Sonia  said  to  me  after  the  doctor  had 
left: 

"  What  courage  you  give  me !  what  confidence !  " 

I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  to  bed  and  let  me 
sit  up  in  her  stead,  but  this  she  would  not  hear  of. 
Nor  could  I  persuade  her  to  dine  with  me.  She 
felt  quite  strong,  she  said,  after  the  tea,  and  did 
not  want  anything  more.  All  I  could  do  was  to 
order  a  cup  of  consomme  to  be  left  in  the  room 
and  make  her  promise  to  take  it  during  the  night, 
and  then  she  insisted  on  my  going.  I  was  not  to 
stay  in  the  sitting-room ;  I  was  not  to  return  after 
my  dinner;  she  felt  she  ought  not  to  leave  her 
brother  or  to  see  me  again  that  evening.  No,  it 
must  be  good-bye  till  to-morrow  morning,  and  all 
I  could  do  was  to  repeat,  "  Good-night,  good-night, 
Sonia,"  and  take  my  leave. 

I  went  to  the  dining-room  rather  pleased  with 
myself.  I  felt  that  I  had  made  considerable  pro- 
gress ;  I  had  called  her  "  Sonia  "  without  rebuff. 
I  saw  that  she  liked  me,  too ;  and  altogether  I  was 
pretty  confident.  In  this  hopeful  mind  I  made  a 
good  dinner,  went  to  bed,  and  slept  like  a  top. 

In  the  morning  I  called  upon  her  only  to  find 
her  even  more  anxious  than  she  had  been  the  day 
before.  The  patient  had  scarcely  slept  at  all; 
his  temperature  was  still  going  up ;  the  pulse  rapid 
and  fitful.  In  spite  of  her  attempts  at  self-con- 
193 


Frank  Harris 

trol,  Sonia  was  evidently  very  nervous,  and  I  had 
harder  work  to  arouse  her  courage  this  time  be- 
cause she  was  tired  out  with  another  night's  watch- 
ing and  sleeplessness.  I  could  not  persuade  her 
to  go  to  rest  or  let  me  take  her  place.  It  was 
enough  for  her,  she  said,  that  I  was  in  the  hotel. 
It  did  her  good.  But  she  would  not  hear  of  me 
as  a  nurse;  that  was  her  business. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  you  are  wearing  yourself  out. 
You  are  suffering  already;  you  will  make  your- 
self ill  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

"  Think  of  what  he  is  suffering,"  she  said  in  a 
pitiful  little  whisper,  and  turned  to  go  to  him 
again.  I  tried  to  keep  her  in  the  room,  and  when 
I  saw  that  was  impossible,  tried  to  make  her  prom- 
ise to  see  me  again  in  an  hour,  but  she  wouldn't. 
I  could  come  back  in  the  afternoon,  she  said,  or 
better  still  in  the  evening  at  seven  o'clock,  when 
the  doctor  was  to  come,  and  then  she  would  see 
me.  She  seemed  to  take  a  positive  pleasure  in  her 
own  weariness  and  discomfort,  as  if  her  suffering 
could  diminish  her  brother's. 

I  went  out,  walked  about,  and  bought  some  neces- 
saries, and  thus  wore  through  a  gloomy  and  stupid 
day.  I  had  begun  to  blame  myself  for  always 
giving  in  to  Sonia ;  the  man,  it  seemed  to  me,  should 
make  his  will  dominant,  whereas  I  was  continually 
doing  what  she  wished.  Then  I  remembered  what 
her  brother  had  said,  that  everyone  did  what  Sonia 
swished,  and  that  usually  her  way  was  the  best  way, 
and  with  this  thought  I  tried  to  appease  my 
vanity.  But  a  spirit  of  revolt  was  in  me,  a  resolve 
to  have  my  way  a  little,  and  so  in  the  evening  I 
193 


Son 


la 


waylaid  the  doctor  in  the  porch  of  the  hotel  and 
persuaded  him  to  take  my  side  and  insist  on  Soma's 
going  to  bed.  A  compliment  or  two  made  him 
willing  to  do  all  I  wanted.  She  was  very  nervous 
and  over-sensitive,  he  said,  and  the  brother  had  no 
constitution  and  seemed  to  have  wasted  the  greater 
part  of  the  little  vital  energy  he  was  born  with. 
"  The  girl  is  strong  and  healthy,"  was  his  con- 
clusion, "  but  the  boy  is  a  poor  creature." 

After  he  had  been  in  the  bedroom  a  few  minutes, 
I  went  into  the  sitting-room  and  waited  for  them, 
and  when  they  came  in  together,  I  attacked  at 
once.  But  in  spite  of  the  doctor's  assistance  I 
should  not  have  carried  my  point  if  I  had  not  shown 
Sonia  that  the  only  way  to  sit  up  on  Saturday 
night  and  on  Sunday  night  was  to  go  to  bed  on 
Friday  night.  Then  she  consented,  on  my  prom- 
ising to  wake  her  up  if  any  change  took  place  in 
the  patient's  condition ;  but  before  she  would  go 
to  her  room  she  gave  me  a  multitude  of  minute  di- 
rections. At  length  I  was  left  alone  with  the  pa- 
tient. He  did  not  seem  to  know  me,  but  that  was 
not  very  wonderful,  as  his  temperature  was  about 

104.  If  it  went  up  a  point  higher  I  was  to  give 
him  a  little  weak  brandy  and  water,  otherwise  noth- 
ing but  milk  and  soda,  and  I  was  to  take  his  tem- 
perature every  two  hours. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  found  his  temperature  nearly 

105.  I  gave  him  some  brandy  and  water.  Hold- 
ing his  pulse,  I  soon  noticed  that  the  stimulant 
had  done  him  good;  it  was  strength  he  needed;  I 
repeated  the  dose  again  and  again.  At  twelve 
o'clock  his  temperature  was  103,  and  as  I  turned 

194 


Frank  Harris 

from  him  I  saw  that  Sonia  had  come  to  the  bedside. 
I  immediately  led  her  away  into  the  sitting-room; 
told  her  of  the  fortunate  turn  the  fever  had  taken, 
and  insisted  upon  her  going  to  bed.  But  it  needed 
no  insistence;  she  was  quite  reasonable  now. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  said  over  and  over  again, 
and  almost  immediately  afterwards,  "  Do  you 
know,  I  am  very  tired  and  thirsty.  Might  I  have 
something  to  drink  .f^  " 

I  poured  her  out  some  soda  and  milk,  and  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  her  promise  that  she  would 
go  to  bed  at  once.  After  that  I  closed  her  own 
door  on  her  and  went  again  to  her  brother's  bed- 
side. It  was  all  plain  sailing  afterwards.  The 
patient's  temperature  gradually  diminished,  until 
at  six  o'clock  it  was  barely  101,  or  less  than  it 
had  been  on  Wednesday  afternoon. 

I  had  the  chart  in  my  hand  and  was  studying 
it  in  the  half-light  of  the  curtain-shaded  room, 
when  I  suddenly  felt  a  hand  on  my  shoulder  and 
the  next  moment  Sonia  put  her  finger  on  the  chart 
with  a  little  gleeful  whisper: 

"  Then  it  was  true !  I'm  so  glad.  He's  much 
better,  isn't  he  ?  "  and  as  I  replied  very  confidently, 
"  He  is  all  right,  I  think,"  she  took  my  head  in 
both  her  hands  and  kissed  me  twice  on  the  fore- 
head. 

"  You  have  cured  him,"  she  said.  "  I  knew 
you  would ;  you  are  all  health,  one  with  nature  and 
life — not  overwrought  or  tortured,  I  mean,  like  we 
are.  And  I,  of  course,  I  kept  awake  for  days, 
and  then  at  the  crisis  overslept  myself." 

She  looked  so  dainty  fresh  as  she  spoke  that  I 
195 


Sonia 

tried  to  take  her  In  my  arms,  but  she  drew  herself 
away  from  me  at  once  with  a  finger  on  her  lips 
and  a  glance  at  the  bed,  so  that  I  could  only  smile 
my  entire  satisfaction. 

"  Come  out,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  me  all  about  it," 
and  in  the  sitting-room  I  told  her  of  the  happy 
change. 

All  she  said  was,  "  You  cured  him.  I  felt  sure 
you  would  from  the  first,  you  healer !  "  When  I 
tried  to  give  the  doctor  the  credit,  she  would  not 
have  it;  she  merely  shook  her  head  imperiously 
and  said,  "  I  know,  I  know."  And  in  this  state 
the  doctor  found  us. 

After  a  short  examination  of  the  patient  he  con- 
firmed us  in  the  belief  that  the  crisis  was  over  and 
that  there  was  no  longer  any  danger.  In  fact  he 
declared  that  as  the  day  was  going  to  be  warm  the 
windows  of  the  sick-room  could  be  opened  and  the 
patient  might  take  a  little  bouillon.  He  had 
brought  a  nurse  with  him,  too,  and  insisted  that  she 
should  take  Sonia's  place  at  the  bedside. 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  asked  Sonia,  in  a  dismal 
way  that  made  us  both  laugh. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  think  you  had  better  go 
for  a  drive  and  have  a  pleasant  day  after  all  your 
anxieties." 

I  could  have  hugged  him  for  the  suggestion, 
which  I  took  care,  however,  to  receive  in  as  matter 
of  course  a  way  as  possible.  When  I  said  that  I 
would  come  back  at  eleven  with  a  carriage,  the 
doctor  backed  me  up  valiantly  as  one  who  knew 
that  he  was  pleasing  his  clients  by  his  determined 
attitude. 

196 


Frank  Harris 

"  I  will  answer  for  the  patient,"  he  said ;  "  you 
go  and  enjoy  yourselves." 

"  But  first  I  must  tell  mother,"  said  Sonia ;  and 
she  hurried  off. 

After  my  tub  and  breakfast  I  felt  completely 
refreshed,  so  spent  my  time  in  hunting  up  the 
best  droshky  I  could  find ;  and  punctually  at  eleven 
I  called  for  Sonia.  She  had  only  to  put  her  hat 
on,  she  said,  but  first  I  must  come  in  and  see  how 
much  better  Andre  was.  I  found  a  marvellous 
change  in  him.  His  face  was  peaky  and  white,  of 
course,  and  his  hands  thin  to  transparency,  but  he 
looked  something  like  his  old  self  and  had  de- 
veloped, the  nurse  said,  a  remarkable  appetite. 
He  was  almost  too  weak  to  speak,  but  he  smiled  at 
us  and  seemed  quite  comfortable. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  that  drive,  I  wonder.  We 
went  down  the  Ring,  through  the  crowds  and  past 
the  shops,  and  then  out  along  the  Prater.  The 
air  was  like  champagne.  In  spite  of  the  sun's 
warmth  it  was  cool  under  the  trees,  with  the 
Danube  water  gleaming  through  the  leaves  on  our 
left.  Everything  was  gay  and  bright  in  the  sum- 
mer sunshine,  and  Sonia  chattered  away  with  the 
absolute  unconsciousness  of  a  happy  child.  What 
she  said  I  don't  know,  and  I  would  not  reproduce 
it  if  I  could.  It  was  all  so  light  and  unimportant 
and  happy,  just  the  natural  rebound  of  her  spirit 
from  the  depression  and  anxiety  of  the  last  few 
days. 

Suddenly  she  said  she  was  hungry,  and  I  asked 
her  which  was  the  best  place  to  get  something  to 
eat.  She  called  out  the  name  of  a  restaurant  to 
197 


oonia 

the  driver,  who  at  once  turned  towards  the  city. 
The  restaurant  stood  on  one  of  the  corners  of 
the  Ringstrasse,  but  Sonia  insisted  on  the  driver 
going  to  the  side-entrance. 

"  The  private  rooms  are  there,"  she  explained, 
"  and  we  don't  want  to  go  into  a  pubhc  room  to- 
day, do  we?  " 

Of  course,  I  agreed  with  her,  but  a  little  chill 
came  over  me.  Had  she  gone  to  a  private  room 
before,  I  wondered.^  With  some  other  man,  per- 
haps? The  gaiety  and  intoxication  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  the  air.  As  I  followed  her  up 
the  red  carpeted  stairs,  I  was  plunged  back  into 
my  old  self  and  became  a  little  more  critical  even 
than  usual. 

But  Sonia  would  not  have  it,  and  sulkiness  was 
impossible  in  her  company.  The  lunch  was  to  be 
the  most  wonderful  lunch  that  was  ever  ordered; 
I  must  choose  it  all ;  but  she  was  very  hungry  and 
it  must  come  quick.  And  wasn't  the  bread  in 
Vienna  the  best  I  had  ever  eaten,  and  wasn't  it  a 
glorious  day,  and  splendid  to  be  together,  till  at 
last  I,  too,  entered  into  her  mood  and  talked  and 
laughed  without  knowing  why. 

The  lunch  was  not  half  over  however  when  Sonia 
declared  she  must  hurry  and  get  back.  In  vain  I 
remonstrated  with  her.  I  told  her  that  in  Vienna 
the  coffee  was  even  better  than  the  bread  and  that 
I  wanted  some,  but  she  would  not  listen  to  me. 
She  must  go  back.  If  I  wanted  to,  I  could  stay 
and  drink  my  old  coffee;  she'd  go  home  by  her- 
self. Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  she  had 
whisked  me  downstairs  and  into  the  droshky. 
198 


Frank  Harris 

At  the  staircase  of  the  hotel  she  left  me,  telling 
me  that  she  would  be  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour ; 
and  she  was  back  in  that  time.  Andre,  it  ap- 
peared, was  really  much  better;  his  mother  was 
sitting  with  him  and  we  were  free  to  go  wherever 
we  liked.  So  off  we  went,  side  by  side,  into  the 
solitude  of  the  crowded  streets. 

From  this  day  our  true  companionship  began, 
an  intimacy  of  every  hour,  which  lasted  for  weeks 
and  weeks  and  makes  it  impossible  for  me  to  at- 
tempt to  chronicle  any  single  day's  doings.  I  re- 
member nearly  every  hour  of  it,  though  I  must 
resolve  now  not  to  tell  everything  I  remember; 
but  simply  the  deepest  impressions  made  upon  me, 
whatever  was  at  once  novel  and  enduring  in  our  in- 
tercourse. 

One  morning,  for  instance,  was  spent  in  the 
Belvedere  Gallery ;  Sonia  wanted  to  show  me  this, 
that,  and  the  other  picture.  I  soon  found  she  was 
a  most  interesting  guide.  She  did  not  judge  like 
any  one  else  whom  I  had  ever  seen.  She  evidently 
knew  something  about  painting  and  loved  colours 
for  their  own  sake;  but  her  judgment  was  always 
of  the  spirit.  I  do  not  mean  by  that  that  she 
judged  pictures  from  the  literary  point  of  view — 
by  the  story  they  told;  she  seemed  to  judge  them 
by  the  soul  in  them,  the  amount  of  emotion  they 
contained ;  and  she  was  often  quite  curiously  right, 
I  thought.  In  this  way  and  that  the  days  passed, 
and  for  some  time  I  was  content  to  feel  that  our 
intimacy  was  growing  happier,  the  lighter  side  of 
her  nature  was  charming  to  me. 

What  surprised  me  most  in  her  was  that  she  did 
199 


Sonia 

not  at  once  lose  that  frank  gaiety  of  spirit  I  had 
noticed  in  her  for  the  first  time  on  the  morning 
after  her  brother's  recovery.  Again  and  again 
she  forced  me  to  laughter  by  her  quaint  imitations 
of  the  faces  and  gestures  we  saw  in  street  and  cafe. 
Everything  that  was  unreal  or  artificial  struck  her 
humour,  and  she  was  continually  taking  off  the 
endless  affectations  of  the  Germans,  the  pompous- 
ness  of  the  men  and  the  trivialities  of  the  women, 
with  a  power  of  mimicry  that  would  have  made 
her  fortune  on  the  stage.  But  though  the  humour 
was  light  and  joyous,  one  felt  every  now  and  then 
piercing  through  it  the  contempt  of  a  sincerer  race, 
or  at  least  of  a  race  with  a  surer  instinct  and  un- 
derstanding of  the  art  of  living. 

"  The  Germans,"  she  said  once,  "  are  like  their 
language,  large,  but  ill- formed  and  awkward ;  dis- 
ciplined mediocrities  they  all  seem  to  me,  and  their 
women,  hens,  'Cluck,  cluck,  cluck,  kaffee  klatsch!'" 
and  her  laughter  had  contempt  and  dislike  in  it. 
And  just  as  I  noticed  a  seriousness  behind  her 
mimicry  so  I  soon  felt  a  deep  melanchoh^  under- 
lying her  almost  feverish  gaiety.  Sometimes  she 
would  brood  for  hours  without  speaking,  till  I 
roused  her,  in  fact,  and  sometimes  she  would  grow 
bitterly  indignant  at  some  little  snobbism  that 
seemed  to  me  perfectly  harmless.  She  was  a  re- 
voltee,  I  told  myself;  but  the  changes  in  her  of 
temper  and  nature  fascinated  me  and  day  by  day 
her  beauty  grew  upon  me;  for  I  now  saw  that 
she  was  beautiful  or  more  than  beautiful.  The 
slim  grace  of  her  figure  was  as  the  swaying  of 
a  lily-stem  in  water  and  her  eager  face  with  the 
200 


Frank  Harris 

soulful  eyes  and  sensitive  mouth  was  infinitely  se- 
ductive. 

From  hour  to  hour  passion  grew  in  me  till  I  lost 
count  of  all  she  did  or  said  that  did  not  feed  my 
desire,  and  at  last  I  spoke.  We  had  spent  the 
morning,  I  remember,  with  her  brother  and  mother, 
and  in  the  afternoon  while  they  went  shopping  to- 
gether, she  and  I  drove  out  as  by  mutual  consent 
along  the  river.  She  was  in  a  strange  mood ;  now 
she  would  rally  me  on  my  silence,  and  when  I  spoke, 
would  herself  begin  to  brood.  We  left  the  car- 
riage at  my  impulse  to  avoid  the  coachman,  and 
as  we  walked  together  in  perfect  solitude  among 
the  trees  I  tried  to  speak;  but  my  mouth  was 
parched  as  with  fever.  I  stood  still,  and  the  scene 
rises  again  before  me  as  I  write.  There  within 
reach  of  me  the  slight  figure,  etched  against  the 
coppery  reds  and  golds  and  greens  of  sunset.  On 
this  side  of  the  sky,  tones  of  turquoise  and  sap- 
phire blended  with  the  iris  of  mother  of  pearl,  and 
on  that  side,  cloud-castles  of  fantastic  architecture 
shot  through  by  jets  of  flame  glowed  and  faded 
in  a  final  conflagration.  I  could  not  speak;  I 
stretched  out  my  arms  and  drew  her  to  me,  and 
turned  her  face  up  to  mine  and  kissed  her  as  if 
I  would  never  part  from  her  again.  I  was  sur- 
prised at  my  own  passion ;  for  a  moment  or  two 
she  was  wholly  mine.  As  she  moved  away  from 
me  I  asked  her  hungrily: 

"Do  you  love  me,  Sonia?  You  know  I  love 
you." 

Her  eyes  dwelt  on  mine  with  pitying  tenderness ; 
but  in  a  moment  she  regained  self-mastery : 
201 


Son 


ta 


"Yes;  but—" 

"But  what?"  I  exclaimed.  "  What  do  you 
mean?  What  can  separate  us  if  we  love  each 
other.  Every  time  you  give  me  a  little  of  your- 
self, you  take  it  back  next  time  we  meet.    Why?  " 

"  Don't  say  that,"  she  cried  appealingly,  "  I 
would  give  you  anything,  everything,  gladly,  if  I 
were  free." 

"  But  you  are  free,"  I  cried  hotly.  "  You  told 
me  that  you  cared  for  no  one  else  and  are  engaged 
to  no  one." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  don't  let  us  talk  and  spoil  the 
golden  hours.  Love  me  if  you  can  and  I  will  love 
you  as  I  can.  For  a  little  while  we  are  together, 
and  the  past  is  far  away  and  affection's  sweet," 
and  she  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm  and  gave  herself 
to  me  in  a  look.  I  didn't  understand  her;  but  I 
drew  her  to  me  and  kissed  her  mouth.  The  slim 
body  fluttered  in  my  hands  as  a  bird  flutters,  and 
then  was  still ;  but  as  she  felt  me  against  her  I  saw 
the  vivid  flush  rise  in  her  cheeks  and  she  began  to 
draw  herself  away  from  me,  slowly  but  irresistibly. 
I  was  conscious  of  the  determination  in  her  and  let 
her  go;  for  something  told  me  that  time  was  on 
my  side  and  that  the  sweetness  of  our  caresses 
would  grow  on  licr  and  not  diminish.  In  silence 
we  walked  together  and  soon  she  took  my  hand 
and  put  it  to  her  cheek,  and  we  went  on  hand  in 
hand  like  children,  while  my  heart  leaped  in  glad- 
ness and  I  could  have  thanked  God  for  the  win- 
ning of  my  imperious  delight. 

But  my  hopes  fell  verj^  low  in  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed. Again  and  again  my  passionate  exclama- 
203 


Frank  Harris 

tlon  came  back  to  me  as  the  exact  truth — whenever 
she  gave  me  a  little  of  herself,  she  seemed  to  take 
it  back  the  next  time  we  met.  I  had  perpetually  to 
reconquer  her,  and  this  intensified  my  desire  and 
exasperated  my  nerves,  till  at  times  I  was  little 
better  than  an  animal.  Scarcely  ever  did  she  yield 
enough  to  call  forth  in  me  that  divine  tenderness 
which  is  the  seventh  heaven  of  passion. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  she  began  to  ask  me 
about  myself  and  my  plans  for  my  future  life. 
Naturally  I  told  her  everything.  I  described  the 
old  days  in  the  Union  at  Oxford,  and  said  that  I 
wanted  to  enter  Parliament,  hoping  to  do  some 
little  good.  Somehow  or  other  the  more  enthu- 
siastically I  talked,  the  colder  she  seemed  to  be- 
come. I  could  not  account  for  it;  and  yet — God 
help  me ! — I  tried  to  win  her  by  exaggerating  sym- 
pathies which  were  not  the  deepest  in  me.^  I  told 
her  of  what  had  been  done  for  the  poor  in  Eng- 
land ;  I  described  the  working  of  the  Factory  Acts 
and  the  Poorhouses,  and  pointed  out  that  more 
would  have  to  be  done ;  that  pensions  for  the  aged 
poor  would  be  estabhshed  by  the  State  and  all  taxes 
on  necessaries  would  be  abolished,  while  the  taxes 
on  luxuries  would  be  greatly  increased.  It  was  all 
no  good.  She  listened  with  a  curious  interest 
which  was  a  part  of  her  intellectual  being,  but 
behind  the  mask  of  sympathetic  manner  I  felt  a 
barrier  of  resolute  indifference  I  could  not  explain 
or  account  for. 

As  the  days  went  on  and  the  date  of  our  de- 
parture came  nearer,  she  seemed  to  grow  colder, 
more  detached;  she  certainly  yieldod  herself  less 


Sonia 

to  me.  What  was  the  mysterious  influence  that 
was  drawing  her  from  me? — I  asked  myself  in 
vain.  Again  and  again  I  tried  to  win  her;  but 
her  resolution  stood  firm.  Now  and  then  she'd  let 
herself  go  to  love  for  a  moment ;  but  the  next  mo- 
ment she'd  draw  back.  I  was  really  half  glad  when 
our  stay  came  to  an  end.  Andre  was  completely 
cured,  and  his  mother  wished  to  spend  the  full 
summer  in  her  country  house.  Just  before  start- 
ing, my  exasperated  nerves  gave  way,  and  I  re- 
proached Sonia  with  her  coldness,  and  told  her 
that  her  reserve  was  drawing  out  the  worst  in  me 
and  not  the  best.  As  soon  as  I  said  that,  she  put 
her  hand  on  my  mouth  and  looked  at  me  with  such 
a  passion  of  deprecation  and  regret,  that  I  choked 
my  thoughts  to  silence.  In  vain  I  cudgelled  my 
brains  for  some  explanation  of  her  conduct;  I 
could  find  none.  It  was  really  enough  to  drive  one 
mad,  the  continual  vain  groping  to  understand  the 
enigma ;  and  yet  the  clue  was  to  be  given  me  sooner 
than  I  dared  to  hope. 

We  had  resolved  to  go  over  Warsaw  to  Peters- 
burg ;  for  their  country-house was  only  about 

thirty  miles  up  the  Neva  from  the  capital.  If  I 
would,  I  could  not  describe  the  long  journey  from 
Vienna  to  Warsaw.  I  was  chiefly  occupied  in 
amusing  the  mother  and  daughter  and  attending 
to  their  comforts,  hoping  vaguely  in  some  way  or 
other  to  make  myself  pleasant  to  them  through 
companionship.  The  wish  to  ingratiate  myself, 
which  seemed  to  me  a  degradation  and  to  some  ex- 
tent an  abdication  of  my  manhood,  had  come  to 
me  from  that  last  fortnight  in  Vienna,  in  which  the 
204. 


Frank  Harris 

fear  of  losing  my  love  had  grown  upon  me  like  a 
nightmare.  The  journey  was  pleasant  enough. 
Andre  and  his  mother  were  interested  in  every  de- 
tail, and  that  gave  rest  to  Sonia  and  myself.  We 
spent  a  night  in  Warsaw,  in  a  huge  ill-furnished 
hotel,  and  the  next  day  we  were  off  again  over  the 
boundless  bare  plains  that  seemed  to  me  so  de- 
pressing.    In  the  afternoon  I  remember  we  crossed 

the  true  Russian  frontier  at  I  forget  the 

name  of  the  station.  As  soon  as  we  started  again, 
I  found  on  entering  the  train  that  Sonia  had  low- 
ered the  double  windows  in  one  part  of  the  corridor 
and  was  leaning  out.  I  walked  up  to  her  and  half- 
timidly  put  my  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  did  not 
draAv  away ;  for  a  moment  or  two  she  did  not  even 
seem  to  notice  it,  and  then  she  turned  to  me  with 
tears  shining  in  her  eyes  and  her  whole  face  quiv- 
ering. 

"  Russia,"  she  said,  "  our  Russia !  Don't  you 
love  it.?  I  love  every  bit  of  it.  You  said  a  little 
while  ago  in  Poland  that  the  boundless  plains  were 
monotonous.  My  God,  how  could  you  have  said 
that.?  There  is  the  great  earth,  naked  and  fruit- 
ful where  men  labour,  w^here  they  are  born  and  live 
and  die,  and  over  them  the  heavens  arched.  '  Ugly,' 
you  said.  These  plains  ugly !  And  you  talked  of 
the  need  of  wood  and  hill  to  make  a  scene  beautiful, 
just  like  a  landscape  gardener.  Ah,  if  it  is  ugly, 
I  love  its  ugliness.  Here  at  any  rate  one  can  take 
long  breaths  uncontaminated  and  feel  oneself 
alone.  I  return  to  nature  as  to  a  mother  when  I 
get  back  to  Russia,  and  feel  myself  at  one  with 
the  earth  and  air  and  sky." 
205 


Son 


la 


"But  won't  you  think  of  England,  Sonia?"  I 
said,  "  and  our  lives  there." 

"  Oh !  "  she  answered  imperiously,  "  there  it  is 
again,  England,  England.  But  what  can  we  do 
in  England,  I  ask  you.?  You  told  me  that  there 
were  dozens  of  men  from  her  universities,  just  like 
you — well-born,  well-taught  and  far  too  well- 
dressed,"  and  she  put  her  hand  on  me  deprecat- 
ingly,  "  eager  to  enter  Parliament,  to  extend  the 
already  overgrown  British  Empire  and  to  debase 
poverty  with  the  cast-oiF  clothes  and  broken  meats 
of  waste.  England  is  finished,  I  tell  you,"  and 
she  sprang  upright,  "  she  is  hide-bound  in  her  tra- 
ditions and  her  past,  and  her  conventions  choke 
her;  but  here  we  have  to  make  traditions.  Think 
of  that.  We  are  not  bound  in  any  wa}^ ;  we  are 
only  asked  to  make  our  lives  memorable.  Ah !  there 
is  a  thirst  in  me  for  great  deeds.  I  hate  your 
ordinary  commonplace  life.  There!  it  is  said." 
And  she  began  to  move  up  and  down  like  a  caged 
wild  thing,  heedless  of  the  people  in  the  other  com- 
partments who  stared  out  at  her.  In  a  moment 
or  two  she  stopped  by  me  again : 

"  Will  no  man  be  born  like  Russia,  worthy  of 
her.?  "  and  she  put  her  hands  on  my  shoulders  and 
her  passion  swept  her  away. 

"  Don't  you  see  how  we  want  a  man .?  "  she  cried. 
"  Every  nation  wants  one.  Look  at  that  accursed 
German  emperor !  Because  the  French  stole  Alsace 
from  Germany,  when  he  took  it  back  again,  he  stole 
Lorraine  with  it.  Lorraine,  the  country  of  Jeanne 
d'Arc!  Lorraine  that  is  all  French,  that  is  as 
much  French  as  Berlin  is  German!  The  ignoble 
206 


Frank  Harris 

thief!  And  now  he  might  give  it  back  and  give 
peace  to  the  world  as  well  and  establish  right  as 
a  sacred  thing,  and  he  is  content  to  drill  and  dress 
and  feed  and  sleep.  Will  no  one  kill  the  dog  and 
make  place  for  a  better  man  ?  " 

Her  reckless  violence  shocked  me.  "  His  suc- 
cessor would  be  no  better,"  I  said,  "  probably 
worse." 

"  Not  so,"  she  said,  with  eager  pointing  hand, 
"  were  his  father  swept  away  terribly  the  son 
might  listen  to  his  conscience.  The  one  great  fact 
would  bring  him  nearer  to  all  other  facts.  .  .  . 
Ah,  to  think  of  it.  Any  one  of  those  Hohenzol- 
lerns  by  giving  back  Lorraine  to  France  might 
win  immortal  reputation  by  a  single  generous  act. 
There  are  two  crowns  before  each  of  them — ^the 
heavy,  hard  gold  symbol,  and  the  exquisite  circlet 
forged  of  peace  and  love  and  the  gratitude  of 
humanity.  And  they  all  choose  the  metal  crown 
and  strut  through  bowing  apes  and  stand  in  God's 
sunshine  without  fear." 

She  seemed  no  longer  conscious  of  my  existence. 
Her  speech  was  like  a  storm  torn  by  flashes  of  hate 
and  sarcasm. 

"  And  here  in  Russia  it  is  worse.  We  have  a 
nincompoop  as  Tsar — an  Alexander,"  she  said  bit- 
terly, "  when  we  want  a  great  man.  Was  there 
ever  such  irony.''  The  people  ask  him  for  liberty, 
for  a  patch  of  land,  for  ordered  peaceful  life — 
space  for  their  souls  to  breathe  in — and  he  sits 
on  their  necks  choking  them.  And  our  people 
are  so  kind,  so  patient,  so  long-suffering.  '  A 
good  man ! '  they  call  him,  it  maddens  me  to  hear 
207 


oonia 

them.  Will  no  one  free  us  from  the  lies  and 
liars?" 

"  Ah,"  I  said,  "  you  are  kicking  against  the 
pricks.     Every  fine  nature  does  that." 

"  And  gets  tired  of  doing  it  too,  eh.?  "  she  said, 
sinking  down  into  her  seat  wearily  and  staring 
again  out  of  the  window. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Her  recklessness 
had  surprised  me,  shocked  me,  too,  a  little.  I 
moved  to  her  and  put  my  hand  again  on  her 
shoulder.  She  sighed  restlessly,  but  did  not  move, 
and  so  we  stood  for  a  long  time  together,  till  I 
w^ent  back  to  the  others  and  left  her  still  sitting 
there. 

An  hour  or  so  afterwards  Andre  looked  out  of 
the  door  and  saw  her,  and  turned  again  to  his 
ordinary  chatter  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders: 

"  Sonia  is  in  one  of  her  moods.  To  be  severely 
left  alone  is  the  only  cure." 

But  I  could  not  take  this  philosophic  view.  I 
was  still  shaken  by  the  passion  with  which  she  had 
spoken — shaken  and  surprised.  What  did  it  mean, 
this  storm  of  enthusiasm,  and  what  was  to  be  the 
outcome  of  it?  I  could  not  guess.  It  was  long 
before  my  heart  began  to  beat  equably  again,  and 
then  I  felt  incapable  of  thought,  exhausted,  as  one 
snatched  up  to  the  heights  where  living  is  a 
delirium. 

It  was  late  at  night,  and  everyone  was  waiting 
for  the  beds  to  be  made  up  before  she  came  in. 
She  had  evidently  been  crying.  Her  face  was 
startling  in  its  pallor;  the  eyes  seemed  half-dead 
and  drooping  like  flowers  beaten  by  heavy  rain. 
208 


Frank  Harris 

She  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  her  tears,  but 
simply  sat  down  in  her  corner  wiping  her  eyes,  and 
sighing  heavily  from  time  to  time.  My  heart  wept 
with  her ;  I  longed  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and  kiss 
the  tears  away.  She  was  unlike  anybody  else  in 
the  world,  I  thought,  nobler  at  once  and  weaker. 
And  so  I  tried  to  tell  her  as  I  said  good-night, 
bowing  low  before  her  and  kissing  her  hand  with 
a  strange  mixture  of  tenderness  and  veneration. 
She  understood  m}^  tacit  sympathy,  for  as  I  lifted 
my  head  she  took  it  in  her  hands  and  kissed  me 
on  the  forehead  before  them  all.  I  went  out  of 
the  carriage  trembling  with  emotion,  prouder  and 
happier  than  I  had  ever  been  in  my  life. 

As  the  hours  passed,  however,  my  old  self,  that 
had  been  crushed  and  silenced  by  the  whirlwind 
of  her  passion,  slowly  rose  again,  and  soon  con- 
vinced me  that  Sonia  was  wrong,  altogether  wrong. 
I  determined  to  persuade  her  that  she  was  mis- 
taken, to  show  her  that  what  had  been,  must  be; 
for  the  one  unchangeable  thing  in  the  world  is 
the  nature  of  man,  and  that  determines  all  his  in- 
stitutions. If  the  institutions  are  bad  it  is  because 
of  a  corresponding  vileness  in  mankind.  One  had 
as  much  right  to  complain  of  the  top  hat  as  of  a 
king,  both  answered  to  some  idiotic  desire  in  man, 
or  they  would  not  exist — 

We  passed  through  Petersburg  at  night :  it  was 
quite  eleven  o'clock  before  we  reached  the  little 
station  four  miles  from  their  country  house.  We 
got  to  our  journey's  end  in  complete  darkness,  and 
I  could  see  nothing  but  a  long,  low  building.  What 
I  noticed  this  first  night  was  the  obsequious  yet 
209     . 


Sonia 

boisterous  affection  of  a  host  of  servants,  male  and 
female. 

In  the  morning  I  saw  the  place  better.  Sonia, 
the  gay  Sonia,  the  Sonia  I  had  known  for  one  or 
two  days  in  Vienna,  had  come  to  life  again;  she 
knocked  at  my  door  before  I  was  half  dressed,  and 
cried  to  me  to  hurry  down,  for  she  wanted  to  show 
me  everything. 

How  I  wish  I  could  paint  her  as  I  found  her, 
framed  in  the  French  window  against  the  dazzling 
sunshine  of  that  summer  morning.  Always  strik- 
ing in  appearance,  she  yet  varied  more  in  looks 
than  most  women ;  she  was  often  almost  plain,  but 
now  and  then  her  beauty  struck  me  as  pure  witch- 
ery, and  this  happened  to  be  one  of  her  rare  days. 
She  always  parted  her  hair  at  the  side  like  a  boy, 
which  gave  a  strange  alert  look  to  her  face.  And 
this  look  was  quickened  and  deepened  now  by  the 
incomparable  warmth  of  her  eyes  into  an  expres- 
sion so  soulful  and  courageous  that  I  only  wanted 
to  love  and  kiss  her.  Her  dress  always  seemed  to 
be  perfectly  simple  and  careless.  I  have  been  told 
that  such  dresses  are  the  most  costly,  but  I  don't 
think  that  was  true  in  her  case.  They  often  fitted 
badly,  but  the  rounded  grace  of  her  figure  was  not 
to  be  disguised  by  a  crease  or  a  fold.  The  mo- 
ment I  came  into  the  room  she  held  out  both  hands 
to  me,  and  then  taking  my  arm  whirled. -fne  but  of 
doors.     I  was  to  see  everything,  and  ^  once. 

"  But  first  you  must  know,"  she  began  breath- 
lessly, "  that  this  house  was  built  a  long  time  ago. 
In  1730  or  '40  my  great-grandfather,  who  had 
spent  some  years  at  the  French  court,  came  back 
210 


Frank  Harris 

to  live  here.  He  had  forgotten  his  Russian,  and 
had  to  curse  the  servants  in  French.  Three-quar- 
ters of  the  house  was  in  existence  before  his  time ; 
but  he  determined  to  level  it  with  the  ground  and 
build  a  palace  here  after  the  fashion  of  Versailles. 
He  had  the  best  intentions,  the  dear  man !  But 
the  first  thing  was  to  have  an  avenue  of  trees,  for 
trees  take  time  to  grow,  so  the  trees  must  come 
first  he  thought.  The  house,  you  see  faces  north. 
My  great-grandfather  thought  a  house  should 
face  south;  he  therefore  began  to  construct  his 
avenue  of  trees  from  the  kitchen  door,  meaning 
when  he  rebuilt  the  house  to  make  the  entrance 
there.  Come,  I  will  show  it  you,"  and  she  swept 
me  off  round  the  house  to  a  superb  avenue  of 
trees,  which  did  indeed  begin  opposite  the  kitchen 
door,  on  the  further  side  of  the  great  unpaved 
dirty  yard.  "  Come  along,"  she  said,  and  we 
walked  rapidly  down  the  avenue  of  alternate  chest- 
nut and  acacia  trees  for  more  than  half  a  mile. 
Some  distance  from  the  house  the  ground  dropped 
suddenly,  and  when  we  got  to  the  slope  Sonia 
pointed  out  to  me  that  the  avenue  ended  in  a 
swamp. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  laughing  merrily,  "  my  great- 
grandfather thought  nothing  of  the  swamp ;  when 
he  came  upon  it  he  determined  to  drain  it,  and  he 
set  to  work.  You  shall  come  and  see  the  little 
summer-house  in  it  that  I  built  in  memory  of  the 
great  Andre;  for  I  have  a  sneaking  regard — in 
spite  of  your  wise  counsels — for  my  half-mad 
great-grandfather,  who  would  make  avenues  and 
drain  swamps  and  build  a  Versailles  here  in  the 
211 


oonia 

wilds.  I  see  what  you  are  thinking,  sir,"  she  went 
on,  nodding  her  head  with  childish  gaiety.  "  You 
are  thinking  that  I  like  my  great-grandfather  be- 
cause I  am  like  him.  It  is  perhaps  true,  you  sober 
Englishman;  but  is  not  the  avenue  beautiful, 
though  it  is  of  no  use  and  does  not  serve  any  pur- 
pose of  parade?  I  love  my  avenue  better  because 
it  is  like  no  other  avenue  in  the  world.  Here  the 
trees  grow  and  flower  all  by  themselves,  content  to 
fill  the  air  with  perfume  and  take  the  eye  with 
beauty.  They  would  be  covered  with  dust  if  we 
drove  up  and  down  between  them.  My  grand- 
father's ideas  of  perfection  have  a  good  deal  to 
say  for  themselves  even  in  this  world."  And  she 
looked  at  me  with  those  strange  luminous  eyes  as 
if  she  had  half  divined  my  mental  attitude. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  for  the  moment  I  did  not 
feel  inclined  to  argue,  but  replied  merrily,  "  I 
think  your  great-grandfather  a  wonderful  person, 
and  his  avenue  quite  beautiful.  I  suppose  he  meant 
to  continue  it  to  the  high  road?" 

"  Four  versts  off,"  she  nodded  gravely,  "  and  he 
did  too,  but  the  swamp  in  the  middle  of  it  would 
not  be  drained,  and  there  is  about  a  hundred  yards 
of  road  made  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  to  run  into 
the  main  road,  and  that's  all.  You  see,"  she  said 
laughing,  "  French  ideas  could  not  survive  in  Rus- 
sia; dear,  lazy,  happy-go-lucky  Russia  wouldn't 
have  a  Versailles  and  so  my  grandfather  died  be- 
fore he  had  half  carried  out  his  plans."  After  a 
pause  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  Untamed  and 
untamable  Russia  wasn't  to  learn  French  ways. 
Perhaps,"  she  continued  gravely,  "  it  will  show 
2n 


Frank  Harris 

itself  just  as  rebellious  to  English  ideas  and  Eng- 
lish ways." 

But  I  would  not  be  drawn.  She  was  too  perfect 
as  she  was ;  the  day  was  too  bright ;  I  was  too 
pleased  to  find  her  in  such  a  happy  mood  to  dis- 
turb it  with  arguments ;  so  I  laughed  at  her  and 
with  her,  and  we  took  our  way  back  to  the  house 
and  breakfast  arm  in  arm. 

But  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  me  there  was  a 
desire  to  refute  her  arguments  and  convert  her, 
and  sooner  or  later  I  was  bound  to  speak.  We 
were  in  the  little  summer-house,  I  remember,  one 
afternoon  with  the  swaying  willow  branches  in 
front  of  us,  when  I  began: 

"  I  wonder,  Sonia,  if  you  would  let  me  try  to 
show  you  why  I  do  not  agree  with  your  views 
about  society  and  its  reformation." 

She  turned  to  me  with  positive  fear  in  her 
face,  and  clasping  her  hands  on  the  table  cried: 
"  Oh,  don't ! "  but  a  moment  afterwards  she 
added : 

"  I  knew  it  would  come  to  speech.  I  knew  it 
would.     What  a  pity !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked  in  surprise. 

"  Oh,"  she  replied  abruptly,  "  do  you  think  we 
need  to  speak  in  order  to  be  understood?  I  think 
we  often  feel  things  more  clearly  than  words  can 
render  them.  I  knew  your  thoughts.  I  felt  the 
antagonism  in  you  all  the  while.  Besides  you  have 
a  way  of  your  own  of  talking,  my  friend.  When 
you  hear  something  you  don't  like,  your  brows  go 
up,  your  jaws  set,  and  your  eyes  flash;  I'm  not 
blind.  But  go  on,"  she  added,  "  I  will  listen.  I 
213 


oonia 

sometimes  wish  I  could  be  persuaded,"  she  con- 
cluded wistfully. 

I  was  discouraged  at  the  outset.  I  felt  that 
the  attempt  would  make  me  lose  ground  with 
her,  but  it  seemed  to  me  merely  honest  to  go  on 
— a  sort  of  duty  to  her  and  myself — so  I  did  my 
best. 

"  You  think  institutions  can  be  altered,"  I  be- 
gan, "  because  they  don't  suit  you,  don't  accord 
with  your  ideas  of  right  and  justice  and  goodness. 
But  institutions  are  there  because  men  are  what 
they  are.  The  institutions  are  not  made  to  suit 
you,  Sonia,  an  extraordinary  woman,  but  the  aver- 
age man,  and  they  do  suit  him  fairly  well  or  he 
would  alter  them." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was 
listening.  I  went  on  in  the  same  strain  for  some 
time;  she  heard  me  out  in  silence,  and  then  replied 
in  a  gentle,  hopeless,  tolerant  way: 

"  I  think  you  answer  yourself,"  she  began. 
"  You  are  still  half  a  Christian,  aren't  you?  Well, 
has  not  Jesus  altered  the  world?  Is  he  not  alter- 
ing men  still?  making  them  ashamed  of  their  brutal 
passions  and  brutish  selfishness.  Surely,  my  friend, 
you  must  see  that  you  are  on  the  wrong  side,  on 
the  side  of  immobility,  while  I  am  on  the  side  of 
progress.  Men  linger  on  the  upward  path  to  sat- 
isfy their  baser  appetites.  You  should  not  defend 
that." 

I  was  not  persuaded.     "  If  man  climbs  fast,"  I 

began,  "  he  falls  back  again.    We  English  tried  to 

go  fast  with  Cromwell  and  fell  back  with  Charles 

II.    You  would  put  a  Cromwell  out  of  breath.     If 

214. 


Frank  Harris 

we  were  to  adopt  your  rate  of  progress  we  should 
need  a  Christ  in  every  street." 

"  Even  that  does  not  seem  impossible  to  me," 
she  cried,  starting  to  her  feet  and  beginning  to 
pace  backwards  and  forwards  as  if  she  needed  a 
physical  outlet  for  her  emotion :  "  Nothing  is  im- 
possible :  there  are  no  limits  to  what  the  soul  may 
do.  .  .  .  You  talk  of  a  Christ  in  every  street ; 
but  you  have  forgotten  that  there  is  a  woman  in 
every  house.  Look  what  we  have  already  done  for 
the  humanization  and  refinement  of  man,  and  what 
we  are  still  doing.  He  is  ashamed  now  to  be  dis- 
solute and  drunken;  he  will  soon  be  ashamed  of 
greed  and  self-seeking.  Woman  is  gradually 
moulding  man  to  her  ideal !  For  ages  she  has  done 
it  unconsciously,  now  that  she  is  beginning  to  do 
it  consciously  the  progress  will  be  more  rapid  than 
you  can  imagine." 

"  Just  as  Russia  is  a  new  factor  in  the  prob- 
lem," she  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "  so  is  woman. 
She  is  bound  by  no  traditions;  it  is  for  her  to 
make  her  own  traditions.  The  women  of  to-day 
have  to  set  the  example;  they  will  find  followers! 
It  was  Jeanne  d'Arc  that  made  Charlotte  Corday 
possible." 

She  had  got  into  her  habitual  train  of  thought, 
and  now  she  talked  with  a  passion  of  spiritual  ex- 
altation that  thrilled  me  in  spite  of  myself. 

"  How  men  miss-see  their  saviours !  No  one  has 
written  a  real  hfe  of  Charlotte  Corday,  and  yet  she 
was  the  first  of  the  great  modern  women,  greater,  I 
think,  even  than  Jeanne  d'Arc,  for  she  had  no  faith 
to  sustain  her,  only  her  own  great  heart.  Don't 
215 


Soma 

you  know  what  she  said  about  her  deed  when  the 
Public  Prosecutor  tried  to  make  out  that  she  was 
the  assassin  of  a  great  and  good  man?  'I  have 
killed  him,'  she  said,  '  and  he  is  dead.  You  cannot 
kill  great  men.'  And  she  was  right ;  she  had  killed 
him.  After  his  death  they  started  INIarat  hats  in 
Paris,  and  Marat  this  and  Marat  that,  but  the 
vile  worship  could  not  last.  Within  the  year  his 
body  was  taken  from  the  grave  and  tossed  in  dust 
to  the  winds!  Charlotte  Corday  had  killed  him; 
he  was  dead." 

There  were  tears  in  her  voice  and  eyes  as  she 
spoke.  It  was  all  so  real  to  her  that  I  answered 
her  half  afraid: 

"  Surely  you  would  not  do  evil — and  such  evil — 
that  good  might  come." 

She  stopped  with  a  great  sigh  and  sat  down  at 
the  table,  shaking  her  head  as  if  in  utter  hopeless- 
ness. I  had  to  repeat  my  question;  and  then  she 
replied  slowly — half-wearily : 

"  Do  you  ask  that  seriously .?  What  a  creature 
of  convention  you  are!  What  a  load  you  carry 
about  with  you  of  outworn  moral  platitudes ! 
Would  you  take  one  life  to  save  ten  thousand? 
That's  the  question.     I  would.     I  would — gladly." 

"  You  must  not  speak  like  that,  dear,"  I  said, 
putting  my  hand  on  her  clasped  hands. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  a  great,  glad 
resolve  in  her  eyes  that  shocked  me.  A  moment  or 
two  afterwards  she  said,  "  Let  us  go  into  the  air," 
and  by  a  sort  of  unconscious  agreement  we  began 
to  talk  of  ordinary  things.  I  made  up  my  mind 
not  to  excite  her  again  if  I  could  help  it ;  opposi- 
216 


Frank  Harris 

tion  seemed  only  to  confirm  her  in  her  wild,  im- 
practicable enthusiasms. 

For  days  and  days  my  purpose  of  self-repres- 
sion held,  and  indeed  the  next  serious  talk  that  we 
had  was  wholly  different.  I  had  been  noticing  the 
way  she  waited  on  her  brother,  and  her  pleasure 
in  the  service.  She  tried  to  amuse  him  and  interest 
him  at  home ;  she  evidently  dreaded  the  life  of  the 
capital  for  him.  In  fact,  she  told  me  once  that  she 
only  stayed  in  the  country  house  for  Andrushka 
and  because  it  suited  her  mother's  health.  Self- 
abnegation  sat  lightly  on  her;  she  seemed  to  take 
delight  in  it ;  I  could  not  help  telling  her  one  morn- 
ing how  much  I  admired  her  for  this. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  blushing,  "  don't  praise  me  for 
unselfishness  nor  set  me  on  a  pedestal  for  any- 
thing! I  am  not  worthy  of  it.  I  have  had  ter- 
rible fights  with  myself ;  to  make  myself  decent  at 
all  was  hard.  As  a  child  I  was  a  wretched  little 
animal. 

"  You  perhaps  ought  to  know  something,"  she 
went  on ;  "  at  any  rate,  it  will  put  3^ou  right  about 
me,  and  take  some  of  the  dirty  conceit  out  of  me. 
As  a  child  I  was  a  sort  of  unconscious  liar,"  and 
she  flushed  again.  "  I  used  to  romance,  say  I  had 
met  people,  and  that  they  had  said  things  to  me, 
and  my  mother  and  Andre  used  to  believe  me, 
which  encouraged  me  to  go  on.  Of  course,  as  I 
grew  older  I  became  a  little  asliamed  of  m^^self  for 
this  and  tried  to  stop  it,  but  it  was  very  hard  to 
break  it  off.  I  was  always  romancing,  and  once  or 
twice  I  got  caught  or  half  caught,  and  nearly  died 
of  shame.  But  the  world  of  my  fancy  was  always 
?17 


onia 


as  vivid  to  me  as  the  real  world,  so  I  went  on  lying 
for  years  and  years.  Then  I  met  that  man  I  told 
you  of,  MichailofF.  He  first  gave  me  faith  in  my- 
self, faith  that  I  could  do  something  worth  the 

doing,  that  I  was  one "  and  again  she  flushed. 

"  He  taught  me  a  great  deal,  too.  I  owe  him 
much.  Of  course,  I  began  to  make  a  hero  of  him, 
began  to  care  for  him,  and  then  found  out  that  he 
was  base — a  brute,  and  a  liar.  He  was  making  up 
to  one  I  had  thought  my  friend,  Hetty  Helfmann, 
all  the  time  he  was  telling  me  that  I  was  the  only 
woman  in  the  world  for  him.  A  liar !  But  it  was 
the  faith  he  had  given  me  in  myself  that  made  me 
hate  my  lying,  so  I  made  up  my  mind  to  say  every 
sentence  over  to  myself  and  see  whether  it  was  true, 
before  I  uttered  it.  That  makes  my  speech  slow 
very  often,  even  now.  Ah,  you  have  noticed  it," 
she  cried,  looking  at  me. 

"  I  have  noticed  the  abruptness  of  speech,"  I 
answered,  "  and  the  pauses,  without  understanding 
the  reason.  It  alwa3^s  seems  to  me  that  you  ought 
to  speak  very  quickly." 

"  I  used  to,"  she  went  on ;  "  lies  come  quickly  off 
the  tongue;  it  is  the  exact  truth  that  is  slow.  I 
often  exaggerate  still.  But  that  does  not  matter 
now;  nothing  matters  now.  Besides,"  she  began, 
as  if  falling  into  a  new  train  of  thought,  "  I  have 
not  the  vestige  of  a  desire  now  to  deceive  any  one 
in  the  world.  .  .  .  But  I  must  go  down  to  the 
village.  No,  you  cannot  come  with  me ;  it  would 
only  hurt  them,"  and  off  she  started  on  some  mis- 
sion of  kindness. 

Our  next  talk  was  about  this  village  and  the 
218 


Frank  Harris 

poor  in  it.  Her  mother  had  said  at  luncheon  that 
it  was  silly  to  waste  money  on  the  villagers ;  for 
there  was  no  gratitude  in  them. 

"  I  don't  do  it  for  a  reward,  mother,"  Sonia  re- 
plied. 

"  Why  do  you  do  it.?  "  I  asked  curiously. 

"  To  appease  my  sympathy,  I  think,"  she  said, 
"  and  because  they  need  it." 

"  Need  it  indeed !  "  sniffed  the  mother.     "  What 


nonsense!  " 

"  The  whole  dispute,  mother,  was  about  the 
laundress  and  what  you  paid  her.  I  said  that  her 
prices  were  very  cheap,  for  by  rights  she  should  be 
paid  what  you  would  give,  rather  than  do  the  work 
yourself.  But  you  only  give  what  competition, 
that  is,  the  necessities  of  the  poor,  compel  them  to 
accept.  I  say  that  is  as  much  theft  as  any  other 
robbery  by  force.  We  are  worse  than  thieves,  too, 
for  we  rob  without  running  any  risk.  I  am  sick  of 
it  all — the  poor  degraded  by  poverty  and  the  rich 
debased  by  luxury  and  power." 

"  Yet  One  said  that  the  poor  would  always  be 
with  us,"  I  interjected. 

She  turned  on  me  at  once.  "  I  don't  think  the 
poor  suffered  when  He  was  with  them." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  Mr.  Lascelles,"  said  the 
mother,  "  that  you  are  taking  her  to  task.  She 
keeps  the  whole  village;  it  is  absurd.  And  look 
how  she  is  dressed — ridiculous !  she  owes  it  to  her 
position  and  name  to  be  properly  dressed.  But 
no !  she  would  rather  play  Lady  Bountiful  to  a 
pack  of  cunning  ne'er-do-weels." 

While  the  mother  was  speaking,  a  verse  that  I 
219 


Soma 

read  at  Oxford  came  into  my  head,  the  verse  of 
a  woman  poet: 

"They  shall  take  all  to  buy  them  bread;  take  all  I  ha,vc  to 
give. 
I,  if  I  perish,  perish;  they  to-day  shall  eat  and  live." 

The  feeling  of  Christina  Rossetti  was  the  same 
as  that  of  Sonia;  but  something  in  me  that  I 
thought  was  reason,  fought  against  the  emotion 
and  I  used  my  knowledge  against  my  sympathy. 
I  don't  know  why  I  did  it ;  I  was  warned  by  the 
look  in  Sonia's  face,  but  I  could  not  refrain  from 
adding  something  that  I  thought  effective  to  my 
argument  of  the  day  before. 

"  It  is  curious,"  I  said,  "  how  every  spiritual 
movement  has  its  drawbacks.  The  Crusades  were 
due  to  a  wave  of  spiritual  enthusiasm,  and  the 
Crusaders  brought  back  with  them  to  Europe  the 
vilest  disease  known  to  our  civilization.  Curious, 
too,  how  material  progress  is  bound  up  with 
spiritual  advancement;  men  accumulate  wealth, 
and  art  immediately  comes  to  humanize  them." 

"  Pure  scepticism — all  that,"  replied  Sonia 
sharply.  "  Scepticism  that  has  never  done  any- 
thing good  in  the  world.  It  merely  lames  right 
action;  it  should  be  called  the  devil's  advocate. 
You  are  always  on  the  wrong  side,  my  friend." 

I  was  wounded  by  the  coldness  in  her  voice,  and 
so  I  persisted: 

"  After  all,"  I  said,  "  it  is  not  scepticism  but 
plain  truth  that  our  social  laws — payments,  pun- 
ishments and  the  rest — are  merely  the  outcome  of 
the  forces,  the  men  and  women  who  make  up  the 
Q20 


Frank  Harris 

community.  The  height  of  a  pyramid  must  bear 
a  proportion  to  the  breadth  of  the  base,  and  the 
base  must  always  rest  on  the  ground — in  the 
mud." 

"It  is  false,"  Sonia  cried,  starting  up  and 
speaking  with  astonishing  vehemence.  "  False  and 
vile.  You  make  life  mechanical.  You  crush  the 
soul.  How  can  you  take  that  side.?  I  can't  endure 
it,"  and  she  left  the  room. 

"Don't  mind,  Mr.  Lascelles,"  said  the  mother 
soothingly,  "  she  will  get  over  her  tantrums 
soon." 

"  That's  just  like  Sonia,"  said  Andre.  "  She 
keeps  us  all  here  for  our  health,  eh,  mother?  but 
I  believe  it  is  because  she  likes  to  play  queen  to 
those  cursed  villagers.  I'm  sick  of  the  place,"  and 
he  yawned. 

As  soon  as  I  decently  could,  I  went  after  Sonia, 
w^hom  I  found  in  the  avenue.  I  walked  with  her, 
but  as  soon  as  I  began  to  speak,  she  cried: 

"  No  more  arguments,  my  friend,  no  more  argu- 
ments. You  are  you,  and  I  am  I.  In  either  case 
the  tree  has  got  to  its  full  height  now  and  cannot 
be  bent  or  altered.  Words  have  no  effect  on  our 
natures.  Character  is  not  to  be  changed  by  a  little 
breath.     It  was  folly  to  think  that." 

"  No,  no,"  she  went  on,  preventing  me  from 
speaking,  "  I  will  not  hear  you  again.  I  under- 
stand now.  Your  English  view  of  life  is  Chinese. 
You  accept  what  you  call  '  facts  ' — the  lower  the 
better.  Your  society  is  all  mechanical,  caged  in 
conventions ;  you  excuse  your  selfishness  by  talking 
of  necessity — '  things  are  because  they  must  be ' 
221 


Soma 

— and  you  choke  us  with  '  what  is,  shall  be.'  I  will 
not  have  it.  I  don't  believe  it.  The  world  to  me 
is  fluid,  men  and  women  malleable — everything 
noble  is  possible." 

"  But  think,"  I  cried,  "  you  contradict  yourself. 
You  have  just  argued  that  character  is  stable,  and 
cannot  be  altered  by  mere  arguments.  Now  you 
say  we  are  infinitely  malleable." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  contradictions  ?  "  she  re- 
plied impatiently.  "  I  see  both  sides  of  the  shield, 
that  is  all.  But  in  the  main  I  am  against  you, 
against  you  heart  and  soul.  I  think  nobly  of  men 
and  you  think  ignobly  of  them.  Each  time  that 
I  talk  with  3^ou  I  go  away  with  my  soul  fainting 
and  weak.  Yes,  I  must  say  it.  I  know  that  if  I 
married  you  and  went  to  England,  I  should  live  a 
life  of  ease  and  comfort,  and  at  every  turn  my 
woman's  vanity  would  be  tickled  and  pleased.  I 
should  be  made  much  of  and  everything  would  go 
well  with  me.  You  care  for  me  too  and  are  kind 
and  good.  But  the  soul  in  me  would  die.  I  should 
pass  my  life  ignobly,  and — God  help  me — perhaps 
I  should  get  to  love  my  prison  of  scented  cotton 
wool.  That  frightens  me.  The  soul  in  me  would 
die  there,  I  tell  you — the  enthusiasm  and  the  reso- 
lution— and  I  live  for  them  and  for  nothing  else. 
I  w^ould  rather  suffer  a  thousand  deaths  than  give 
up  my  beliefs ;  they  redeem  me  to  myself."  And 
she  turned  from  me  and  walked  quickly  into  the 
house. 

As  she  went,  fear  fell  upon  me,  abject  fear.  I 
had  lost  her.  What  a  fool  and  brute  I  was!  I 
had  spoken  against  my  feelings  too ;  she  was  right, 
222 


Frank  Harris 

and  again  the  line  came  back  and  sang  itself  in  my 
ears: 

"  I,  if  I  perish,  perish;  they  to-day  shall  eat  and  live." 

Almost  I  resolved  to  seek  her  out  and  tell  her 
that  there  should  be  no  more  controversy,  no  more 
disagreement  between  us,  that  I  would  work  with 
her.  But  something  masculine  in  me  rebelled 
against  this  as  weakness ;  and  reason — or  perhaps 
dialectic — began  to  furnish  me  wdth  arguments 
against  her.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  in  the 
main  the  poor  were  incapable  and  wastrels  and  the 
well-to-do  industrious  and  provident — that  was  the 
truth  to  anchor  to.  .   .  . 

I  spent  the  whole  day  and  nearly  the  whole  night 
fighting  with  myself,  heart  against  head,  and  onXy 
won  rest  by  persuading  myself  that  Sonia  couldn't 
give  me  up.  The  fear  that  she  might  do  so  was 
baseless,  I  argued;  I  had  never  heard  nor  read  of 
such  abandonment  for  a  mere  idea. 

But  next  day  I  had  difficulty  in  finding  her. 
She  avoided  me.  When  I  asked  after  her  I  was 
told  by  the  servant  with  uplifted  hands  and  eye- 
brows, that  she  was  probably  locked  in  her  room, 
that  nobody  could  find  her.  I  was  conscious  that 
these  were  only  excuses,  but  consoled  myself  with 
the  idea  that  I  should  see  her  at  the  midday  meal 
and  then  get  a  chance  to  talk  to  her.  The  hours 
went  by  on  feet  of  lead.  At  last  the  bell  rang  for 
lunch.  I  was  more  than  disappointed — I  was 
heart-sick  with  fear,  when  I  saw  that  she  was  not 
in  her  place  and  that  no  one  seemed  to  notice  her 
absence.     I  asked  after  her  and  was  told  that  she 


Sonia 

had  probably  eaten  In  her  room.  Andre  was  al- 
most certain  that  he  had  seen  her  going  out  walk- 
ing as  he  came  down  to  dinner.  Immediately  the 
meal  was  over,  I  went  among  the  outdoor  servants 
and  found  this  was  true;  Sonia  had  gone  out  by 
herself  and  might  be  away  the  whole  day,  they  said. 
All  that  afternoon  I  spent  wandering  about  the 
house — like  a  dog  without  its  master,  as  I  thought 
to  myself  bitterly — waiting,  looking,  longing  for 
the  form  that  never  came;  and  all  the  while  my 
fear  grew,  the  fear  of  irreparable  loss. 

The  long  summer  day  dragged  to  its  end;  the 
rose  lights  faded  out  of  the  sky;  the  gathering 
shadows  chilled  me.  It  was  ten  o'clock  before  I 
saw  her  coming  up  the  avenue  ;  and,  strange  to  say, 
as  soon  as  I  saw  her,  my  fears  fled  and  a  sort  of 
irritation  and  anger  took  their  place.  How  could 
she  hurt  me  so?  I  would  not  go  to  meet  her;  I 
would  stand  and  let  her  come  to  me.  She  was  in 
the  wrong,  not  I.  But  when  she  saw  me, — and  she 
did  not  see  me  till  she  was  within  twenty  yards  of 
me,  for  I  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees — she 
stopped  too,  and  for  a  moment  made  as  if  she 
would  leave  the  avenue  and  go  into  the  house  by 
the  side  door  through  the  orchard.  That  hurt  me 
inexpressibly,  and  with  the  pain  my  fears  came 
back  on  me  with  a  rush ;  all  the  irritation  vanished 
and  I  went  quickly  to  her  with  a  reproachful : 

"  Sonia,  I  have  waited  all  day  for  you." 

When  I  saw  her  face,  I  was  tenfold  more  pitiful. 
It  was  pale  and  drawn  with  great  violet  rings 
round  the  eyes;  she  had  evidently  been  crying. 

"  Oh,"  I  went  on  hurriedly,  "  Sonia,  what  have 
234 


Frank  Harris 

I  done?  Let  us  love  each  other  and  think  of  noth- 
ing else.  It  IS  too  terrible  to  be  parted  from  you." 
As  she  nodded  slowly,  I  took  her  in  my  arms.  I 
was  glad  she  did  not  speak.  I  went  on  talking  to 
comfort  her,  telling  her  how  I  had  waited  and 
longed  for  her  and  how  glad  I  was  to  see  her ;  but 
I  suddenly  noticed  that  although  she  was  very 
gentle  and  let  her  hand  rest  in  mine,  she  was  walk- 
ing steadily  to  the  house,  and  when  I  tried  to  re- 
strain her,  she  looked  up  at  me  with  the  brave  eyes 
and  said  quietly: 

"  I  am  worn  out,  George ;  I  must  rest." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  I  said,  again  walking 
on  by  her  side.  "  But  you  will  see  me  to-morrow, 
won't  you  ?  I  want  to  be  with  you."  I  would  not 
even  say  that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  her  for  fear  of 
alarming  her,  and  she  bowed  her  head  in  agree- 
ment.   As  we  came  to  the  house,  I  kissed  her  hand : 

"  Good-night,  Sonia."  She  seemed  to  bend  her 
head  just  a  little  as  she  passed  through  the  door. 

To  describe  the  conflict  of  my  feelings  that  night 
would  be  impossible  to  me.  As  is  usual  I  fear  in 
such  cases,  I  began  by  blaming  myself,  and  as  her 
influence  on  me  faded  I  ended  by  blaming  Sonia. 
After  all  she  was  unreasonable ;  the  poor  were  the 
wastrels  and  the  rich  were  the  efficient.  Of  course, 
there  were  exceptions,  numberless  exceptions,  but 
that  was  the  rule  and  the  rule  made  for  progress, 
for  right.  I  would  not  disguise  my  convictions  on 
that  point ;  it  would  be  treason  to  my  intelligence. 
But  then  all  my  resolution  was  shaken  by  the 
memory  of  her  pitiful,  pale  face,  and  I  resolved  to 
be  as  sweet  to  her  as  I  could  be,  to  make  everj- 
225 


Sonia 

thing  easy  to  her;  for  I  loved  her  and  I  had  no 
doubt  in  spite  of  what  had  passed  that  she  loved 
me.  And  loving  each  other  I  felt  sure  that  all 
would  come  right — in  time. 

I  did  not  see  her  in  the  forenoon,  but  word  was 
brought  to  me  from  her  about  eleven  o'clock  that 
she  would  be  down  to  lunch  and  would  see  me  in 
the  afternoon.  After  lunch  we  went  out  and,  by 
some  unconscious  agreement,  walked  round  the 
house  and  down  the  avenue  to  the  summer-house 
in  the  swamp,  Sonia's  favourite  place.  She  seemed 
very  quiet,  unnaturally  quiet.  That  brought  back 
my  fears,  and  the  conflict  going  on  within  me,  the 
old  conflict  between  my  head  and  my  heart,  con- 
fused me ;  but  when  we  were  seated  in  the  summer- 
house  and  the  brave  sad  eyes  looked  at  me,  I  knew 
what  to  say — the  truth.  I  would  tell  her  the  sim- 
ple truth.  And  I  did,  and  she  listened  to  me  to 
the  end  without  a  word ;  only  when  I  told  her  how 
I  had  doubted  her  love,  she  stroked  my  head  with 
her  hand  pitifully.  Helped  by  that  cue  I  dwelt 
on  my  love  for  her  and  her  love  for  me.  I  could 
not  help  saying  at  the  end : 

"  If  I  lost  you,  Sonia,  now,  I  should  go  mad,  I 
think.  I  know  I  should  not  care  for  anything 
else  in  the  world  or  be  worth  anything ;  I  should  be 
given  over  to  the  devil." 

At  once  her  brows  knit  and  her  face  grew  cold. 

"  You  must  not  talk  like  that,"  she  said,  "  it  is 
not  true,  I  am  sure." 

"  But  you  see  what  I  mean,"  I  cried,  shifting 
my  ground  quickly.     "  In  heart  I  am  with  you  al- 
together,  and   my  brain   sympathizes   with  much 
926 


Frank  Harris 

that  you  say.  Give  me  a  little  time.  Whatever 
you  wish  to  do  for  the  poor  shall  be  done,  whatever 
you  wish  to  give  to  them,  shall  be  given.  To- 
gether we  will  fight  every  abuse,  every  injustice. 
I  will  try  to  live  as  you  would  have  me  live;  but 
you  must  not  speak  of  leaving  me ;  that  hardens 
me,  brings  out  all  the  worst  in  me." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  Oh,  my  friend," 
she  said,  and  there  was  infinite  tenderness  and  re- 
gret in  her  voice,  "  the  trouble  is  deeper,  far 
deeper.  Don't  let  us  deceive  ourselves.  You  are 
an  Englishman  and  I  am  a  Russian — ^that's  the 
real  difficulty.  You  could  only  be  happy  and 
strong  and  at  your  best  in  England,  and  I  cannot 
give  up  Russia.  Look,"  and  she  spoke  hur- 
riedly, "  before  I  met  you  I  was  bound  to  her  in  a 
hundred  ways,  by  a  hundred  ties.  Over  there  in 
Petersburg  there  are  men  and  women  who  need  me 
and  I  have  promised  myself  to  them.  I  cannot 
draw  back  now." 

"  But  how  would  our  love  and  marriage  inter- 
fere with  that .?  "  I  asked,  with  a  terrible  sinking 
at  heart,  a  terrible  dread. 

"  What  right,"  she  answered,  "  have  I  to  sac- 
rifice you.P  None;  I  should  ruin  your  life,  blast 
it.     By  what  right.?" 

"  By  the  right,"  I  broke  in,  "  that  I  wish  it, 
that  I  am  eager  to  give  it." 

She  put  her  hand  on  my  mouth.  "  Hush,  hush," 
she  said.  "  I  am  not  willing.  I  could  not  work 
with  you  beside  me.  My  own  life  is  mine  to  break 
and  throw  away  as  I  please;  but  yours — oh,  I 
could  do  nothing  if  you  were  there.  I  should  be 
227 


Sonia 

a  coward  for  you,  and  I  shall  need  all  ray  cour- 
age." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked  harshly,  feeling 
myself  grow  pale  with  anger.  In  some  way  or 
other  I  was  certain  then  that  her  resolution  was 
irrevocable.  "  I  offer  to  share  your  life  whatever 
it  may  be.  You  tell  me  that  you  will  not  accept 
my  companionship.  Then  you  don't  love  me.  If 
you  loved  me,  you  could  not  speak  like  that." 

"  Ah,"  she  cried  wildly,  "  why  do  you  tempt  me 
and  torture  me  ?  "  And  with  a  supreme  effort  at 
self-control,  she  rose  and  came  over  to  me,  and  I 
drew  her  down  on  my  knee  and  she  laid  her  head 
beside  mine. 

"  Don't  say  such  things,"  she  said  to  me. 
"  You  mustn't  even  think  them.  I  love  you  too 
well,"  she  whispered,  "  I  love  to  put  my  face 
against  yours.  Hush,  don't  look,"  she  went  on, 
holding  my  head,  for  I  tried  to  draw  away  from  her 
to  look  at  her.  "If  you  look  I  can't  tell  you. 
But  when  you  touch  me,  George,  when  our  hands 
meet  just  by  chance,  I  thrill  from  head  to  foot; 
all  my  body  cries  for  you.  Ah,  God,  if  I  did  not 
love  you,  how  easy  it  would  all  be !  How  easy  it 
would  be  to  part  from  you  and  never  see  you  again 
and  go  on  with  my  work.  But  now  it  is  hard,  so 
hard,"  and  her  voice  had  a  pitiful  break  in  it. 
"  It  is  worse  than  death  to  leave  you ;  but  I  must, 
I  must. — My  work  calls  me,  my  work " 

She  put  my  head  from  her  resolutely  and  stood 
up  with  her  hands  in  front  of  her  face,  and  as  she 
shook  the  tears  away,  she  walked  out  of  the  hut. 
I  sat  dnd  saw  her  go.     What  was  there  to  say?     I 


Frank  Harris 

felt  an  immovable  resolution  in  her,  and  I  was  ex- 
hausted with  the  strain.  There  I  sat  in  the  hut 
with  my  dead  hopes  about  me,  my  heart  aching 
and  my  brain  numb.  I  could  feel  nothing,  could 
not  think;  but  the  verse  sang  itself  in  my  ears 
with  a  sort  of  insane  exaltation : 

"  I,  if  I  perish,  perish;  in  the  name  of  God  I  go." 

How  long  I  stayed  in  the  hut  I  don't  know.  I 
left  it  like  a  wounded  animal,  with  one  fear  in  me 
■ — that  I  should  go  mad,  with  one  wish — to  tire  my 
body  to  a  rag  and  then  sleep.  I  walked  for  hours, 
driving  myself  on  whenever  I  noticed  that  my  pace 
slackened,  and  yet  with  some  unconscious  purpose 
of  making  a  round  and  getting  back  to  the  house 
at  last.  It  was  after  midnight  when  I  returned. 
The  short  summer  night  was  quickening  to  the 
dawn  and  I  was  glad  of  it ;  it  had  been  a  terrible 
day ;  I  was  glad  to  have  done  with  it,  glad. 

When  I  awoke  I  felt  perfectly  refreshed  and 
curiously  composed  and  contented.  There  was  a 
little  dull  pain  about  my  heart  I  noticed,  but  that 
would  go  off,  I  thought,  with  delight,  and  I  pulled 
the  curtains  back  and  threw  the  window  up  and 
stretched  myself  in  the  sunlight.  I  even  went  so 
far  as  to  jest  with  myself;  if  Sonia  did  not  care 
for  me,  perhaps  some  one  else  would,  and  if  no  one 
would,  a  state  of  single-blessedness  was  not  so 
bad,  after  all.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  crying  over  spilt  milk  and  inscrutable  women. 
As  I  got  out  of  my  tub,  I  whistled.  The  cold 
water  had  done  me  good,  brought  me  back  com- 
pletely to  the  realities  of  existence.     There  is  sun- 


Sonia 

shine  m  life,  I  said,  and  rubbed  myself  hard. 
Nothing  like  exercise,  sleep  and  a  cold  bath  for 
us  English,  I  exulted:  so  we  chase  away  fevered 
dreams  and  despairs.  I  dressed  quickly.  But 
when  I  had  dressed,  the  thought  of  meeting  Sonia 
came  to  me  with  a  shock  of  fear  that  almost  un- 
nerved me.  My  mind  was  made  up,  however,  and 
in  a  moment  I  had  regained  self-control  and  passed 
resolutely  down-stairs.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
sitting-room,  so  I  went  out  into  the  orchard.  I 
would  not  go  back  to  the  avenue.  No,  I  would 
walk  about  under  the  trees,  and  not  think  at  all 
but  enjoy  the  sunshine  and  the  song  of  birds. 
There,  an  hour  later,  a  servant  found  me;  he 
brought  me  a  letter.  As  I  opened  it,  I  felt  my 
heart  turn  to  water;  I  knew  it  was  from  Sonia; 
it  was  very  short. 

"  Dear  One,"  it  began,  "  It  would  be  better  for 
us  not  to  meet  again  for  some  time.  I  am  suffer- 
ing so  much  that  I  must  beg  you  to  give  me  time 
and  solitude  to  let  me  come  to  myself;  I  could  not 
meet  you  now.  You  will  go  to  Petersburg,  I  know, 
to-day,  and  later  perhaps  we  may  meet  calmly. 

"  She  who  loves  you.  "  Sonia." 

I  folded  the  letter  up  again  and  smiled  at  the 
messenger  like  a  mandarin,  and  wondered  as  I 
walked  away  under  the  trees  why  I  did  not  fall; 
for  sky  and  earth  were  w^hirling  round  me,  and  I 
could  have  screamed  with  the  pain.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments I  came  to  reason.  So  this  was  my  dismissal ; 
curt  enough,  and  complete  enough.  Rage  came 
230 


Frank  Harris 

into  me ;  I  turned  and  walked  hastily  to  the  house ; 
and  in  ten  minutes  I  had  packed  my  things.  Then 
I  sat  down  to  write  to  her. 

"  Your  wishes  shall  be  followed,  Sonia."  I 
wrote;  but  I  could  not  close  the  letter  there  as  I 
wanted  to ;  my  heart  would  not  let  me ;  in  spite  of 
myself  I  added,  "  But  I  rely  on  your  promise  that 

we    shall    meet    again.     I    shall    be    at    the   

Hotel." 

I  signed  it  boldly,  "  Your  lover,  George  Las- 
celles." 

It  suddenly  came  to  me  that  I  could  not  meet  her 
mother  and  brother  without  betraying  myself.  I 
would  write  to  them,  too;  and  I  wrote  hinting 
clearly  to  the  mother  that  it  was  Sonia's  will  that 
I  should  go  at  once  and  not  mine,  and  giving  my 
address  very  carefully  at  the Hotel  in  Peters- 
burg, as  I  had  given  It  to  Sonla.  To  the  brother 
I  wrote  still  more  briefly,  thanking  him  for  his 
kindness  to  me,  and  hoping  that  he  would  let  me 
see  him  when  he  came  to  town. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  day  I  was  In  Peters- 
burg. I  immediately  dressed  myself  for  dinner 
and  went  off  to  the  Embassy.  I  must  hunt  up 
one  of  our  fellows  there,  I  thought;  I  could  not 
dine  by  myself:  my  memories  were  terrible  com- 
pany. I  dined  with  Green,  the  Green  who  has 
since  made  a  name  for  himself  In  diplomacy,  and  a 
jolly  good  dinner  we  had,  I  remember.  I  en- 
joyed everything  at  the  Restaurant  Fran9als,  the 
careful  service,  the  excellent  food,  and  the  unde- 
niable champagne.  I  had  said  to  myself  that  I 
wouldn't  think,  and  I  didn't;  I  simply  chattered 
231 


Sonia 

to  Green  and  listened  to  his  chatter,  and  did  myself 
right  well. 

Looking  back,  as  I  am  now  doing,  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  most  curious  point  in  my  mental  con- 
dition at  this  time  was  the  fact  that  at  first  I  did 
not  suffer.  On  the  contrary,  I  felt  a  sense  of  re- 
lief, and  this  relief  was  not  chiefly  due  to  the 
merging  of  anxiety  Into  certainty,  but  was  posi- 
tive and  substantial.  For  days  and  days  I  was 
like  a  schoolboy  just  released  from  school.  I  can 
only  explain  this  feeling  by  comparing  Sonia's 
exaltation  of  mind  to  living  high  up  a  mountain- 
side where  the  air  Is  thin  and  mere  breathing  an 
exertion.  I  had  been  mentall}^  on  the  strain  for 
weeks,  and  now  that  the  tension  was  over  I  went 
back  with  delight  to  the  old  easeful  way  of  life. 
This  relaxation  had  one  consequence  which  at  the 
moment  I  did  not  think  of,  but  which  In  the  long 
run  became  of  the  greatest  Importance.  When  I 
left — I  meant  to  write  to  Sonia  within  the  week. 
At  the  back  of  my  mind,  indeed,  I  Intended  to 
write  to  her  frequently ;  but  the  people  at  the  Em- 
bassy were  extremely  kind  to  me ;  the  old  life,  with 
its  calls,  dinners,  and  parties,  very  engrossing,  and 
so  I  put  off  writing.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight 
it  was  harder  to  write  than  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
because  I  should  have  had  to  excuse  or  explain 
my  silence,  and  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  Invent 
lies.  There  was  a  little  pique  at  the  bottom  of 
me,  I  suppose  towards  Sonia,  which  strengthened 
my  disinclination  to  write;  she  had  thrown  me 
over,  and  my  paltry  vanity  took  pleasure  in  sulk- 
ing. For  three  or  four  weeks  I  went  on  comfort- 
233 


Frank  Harris 

ably  enough.  But  as  soon  as  my  mind  had  rested 
and  my  spirits  had  regained  their  tone,  the  society 
I  was  moving  in,  began  to  pall  upon  me ;  the  women 
seemed  to  me  silly  and  frivolous,  the  men  bored 
me.  How  was  it,  I  asked  myself,  that  before 
Sonia  took  off  the  German  Frauen,  I  had  never  no- 
ticed how  like  women  were  to  hens?  They 
strutted  about  and  made  little  noises  exactly  like 
hens;  their  faces,  too,  had  some  strange  family 
likeness  to  the  faces  of  hf~r.s,  and  their  voices  and 
manners  reminded  me  of  a  farmyard.  Again  and 
again  I  burst  out  laughing  at  some  unholy  resem- 
blance of  this  sort,  and  my  merriment  was  some- 
times difficult  to  account  for. 

As  mixed  society  grew  more  and  more  tedious 
to  me,  I  withdrew  from  it  and  began  to  give  men's 
dinners.  But  soon  the  men,  too,  struck  me  as  af- 
fected and  painfully  dull;  their  conversation  was 
as  matter-of-fact  as  the  intercourse  of  animals, 
and  I  felt  rising  in  me  a  sense  of  contempt  and  in- 
dignation which  I  had  never  felt  before  and  which 
I  had  no  right  to  feel,  I  who  a  few  months  before 
would  have  condemned  intellectual  conversation  as 
bad  form,  a  sort  of  showing  off.  In  sheer  disgust 
at  the  tedium  of  my  fellows  I  withdrew  from  so- 
ciety altogether,  and  began  to  live  entirely  alone. 
I  worked  a  little  at  Russian,  but  found  the  days 
drag.  In  the  slow,  heavy  hours  of  solitude  Sonia's 
face  came  back  to  me,  and  the  sense  of  my  loss 
grew  to  pain,  a  pain  of  every  moment,  an  aching 
desire  that  increased  in  intensity,  and  seemed  at 
length  to  change  the  very  nature  of  my  mind.  In- 
stead of  condemning  Sonia  I  began  to   condemn 


Son 


la 


myself,  and  at  length  I  could  only  escape  from 
misery  by  putting  Sonia  on  a  pedestal  as  one  of 
the  most  extraordinary  women  in  the  world,  and  so 
excusing  in  part  my  own  stupid  resistance  to  her 
influence.  For  now  I  saw  clearly  that  she  had 
been  right  and  that  I  had  been  mistaken,  that  the 
cause  of  progress  and  reform  was  the  only  cause 
for  a  man  to  defend,  and  that  I  had  sinned  against 
the  light  in  trying  to  damp  her  enthusiasm.  I 
took  a  pleasure  now  in  going  into  the  poorer  dis- 
tricts of  Petersburg  and  helping  poverty  here  and 
there,  as  I  thought  Sonia  would  have  liked  me  to 
do.  The  destitution  and  misery  I  found  on  every 
side  strengthened  my  newborn  feelings  and  brought 
me  more  and  more  into  sympathy  with  Sonia's  re- 
volt. Indeed,  so  close  did  I  come  to  her  in  sym- 
pathy that  one  day  I  sat  down  and  wrote  her  a 
long  letter,  setting  forth  much  of  what  I  have  put 
down  here,  but  particularly  dwelling  on  the  change 
in  me,  my  conversion,  I  called  it;  and  in  truth  it 
was  a  conversion,  for  never  again  was  I  able  to 
think  the  old  individualistic  thoughts  or  to  live  the 
old  life  entirely  devoted  to  selfish  enjoyment.  I 
sent  the  letter  to  their  country  house.  It  was 
xVndre  who  told  me  to  send  it  there.  From  time 
to  time  I  still  came  across  him  in  the  fashionable 
quarter.  He  could  never  tell  me  where  his  sister 
was  or  what  she  was  doing ;  or,  perhaps,  he  would 
not  tell  me,  though  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  could 
not,  for  he  did  not  appear  to  take  the  sHghtest 
interest  in  what  she  was  doing  or  where  she  was 
staying. 

"  She  is  always  about  with  dirty  workmen,"  he 
234 


Frank  Harris 

said,  "  or  with  women  whose  hair  has  been  cut 
short  and  who  look  hke  ill-dressed  boys.  I  can't 
stand  the  set.  She'll  get  herself  locked  up,  if  she 
doesn't  look  out." 

And  so  he  went  his  way,  burning  his  little  bit 
of  candle  at  both  ends. 

After  waiting  a  fortnight  or  so,  I  got  an  an- 
swer from  Sonia.  The  letter  was  lying  on  my 
table  one  afternoon  when  I  came  in.  How  hun- 
grily I  read  the  address,  how  I  played  with  my  de- 
light !  I  would  not  open  the  letter,  I  would  touch 
it  just  where  her  hand  had  touched  it,  and  I  ended 
by  kissing  it  again  and  again  in  a  wild  rapture. 
Her  mere  influence  transports  one  beyond  reason, 
I  thought  with  a  smile.  At  length  I  tore  the  en- 
velope open  and  read : 

"  Your  letter  made  me  glad  for  you  and  sorry 
for  our  fate.  It  will  be  better  for  us  not  to  meet 
yet. 

"  Yours  in  all  sympathy  and  affection, 

"  Sonia." 

After  writing  as  I  had  written,  I  must  have  felt 
sure  that  she  would  give  me  a  meeting,  for  her 
letter  was  a  terrible  disappointment.  For  some 
days  everything  was  weary,  flat  and  unprofitable 
to  me;  and  then  I  began  to  work  again  at  my 
Russian  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  to  go 
out  among  the  poor. 

One  of  the  first  days  I  went  out  I  had  rather  a 
curious  adventure.  In  a  workman's  restaurant 
where  I  sometimes  dined,  I  found  a  pretty  and 
235 


Sonia 

rather  well-dressed  girl  of  Jewish  type  seated  al- 
most opposite  my  accustomed  place.  She  spoke 
to  me  first,  I  think,  but  I  really  paid  so  little  atten- 
tion to  the  matter  that  I  could  not  be  sure.  She 
was  pretty,  very  pretty,  in  a  sort  of  rich  sensuous 
way,  but  she  did  not  appeal  to  me.  She  seemed 
affected  and  a  little  common;  but  she  evidently 
knew  the  poor  and  the  poorer  districts  of  Peters- 
burg intimately,  and  I  could  not  help  admitting 
that  she  was  not  only  well  educated  but  well  read. 
Almost  at  the  beginning  of  our  conversation,  I 
remember,  the  talk  fell  on  Turgenieff's  "  Fathers 
and  Sons  "  and  his  extraordinary  picture  of  Ba- 
zarov,  the  Nihilist.  But  the  girl  would  not  accept 
Bazarov  as  a  representative  of  the  Reform  move- 
ment in  Russia,  and  her  criticism  had  something  in 
it. 

"  Bazarov,"  she  said,  "  is  a  hard,  selfish  brute, 
while  the  very  essence  of  the  Reform  movement 
is  unselfish  devotion  to  others.  If  you  only  knew 
some  of  the  real  leaders  of  reform — Bakounlne's 
nephew,  for  instance,  or  Michalloff,  they  are  Ni- 
hilists if  3^ou  like." 

I  pricked  up  my  ears  at  the  name.  "  Ah,"  I 
said,  "  tell  me  about  Michalloff,  will  you  ^  Do 
you  know  him  well?  " 

She  cast  her  eyes  down  in  a  little  confusion  that 
seemed  to  me  chiefly  pretence,  as  I  asked  her 
whether  she  knew  Michalloff;  but  in  a  moment  she 
regained  her  self-possession  and  said  demurely: 

"  At  one  time  I  knew  him  very  well.  He  is  an 
extraordinary  man  and  devoted  to  the  cause.  You 
ought  to  meet  him." 

^36 


Frank  Harris 

"I  should  like  to,"  I  replied  coldly.  "But 
cannot  you  tell  me  about  him,  what  he  does,  how  he 
shows  his  devotion  ?  " 

"  He  was  left  fairly  w^ell-off,  you  know,"  she 
began,  "  his  father  was  a  shopkeeper,  I  think,  in 
Little  Russia;  but  he  lives  just  like  a  workman, 
allows  himself  only  ten  roubles  a  week  and  gives 
all  the  rest  to  the  Nihilist  propaganda.  He  is 
sure  to  be  arrested  one  of  these  days." 

This  last  phrase  convinced  me  that  she  knew 
MichailofF  better  than  she  wished  to  appear  to 
know  him.  I  was  right ;  she  tried  again  and  again 
to  find  out  from  me  where  I  had  heard  of  him  and 
why  I  took  an  interest  in  him ;  but  her  whole  being 
was  common  and  insincere  and  I  told  her  nothing. 

I  did  not  return  to  the  restaurant  for  a  fort- 
night ;  but  when  I  went  back  again,  I  found  her  in 
the  same  place  as  before.  That  gave  me  pause, 
made  me  vaguely  suspicious  and  put  me  on  my 
guard  with  her.  She  seemed  over-dressed  now 
and  coarser  than  ever,  but  she  met  me  with  a  great 
show  of  frankness. 

"  I  must  introduce  myself,"  she  said,  almost  as 
soon  as  I  sat  down.  "  My  name  is  Hetty  Helf- 
mann."     I  bowed  and  told  her  my  name. 

"  I  remembered  what  you  said,"  she  began, 
"  about  wishing  to  meet  some  of  the  real  leaders 
of  the  revolutionary  party,  but  they  naturally 
avoid  strangers,  and  MichailofF  is  so  taken  up  with 
his  new  flame  that  I  could  not  get  him  to  promise 
to  give  us  even  an  hour  of  his  valuable  time." 

"  Indeed,"  I  replied  coldly ;  but  she  went  on, 
with  affected  carelessness: 
237 


Son 


la 


"  It  is  Sonia  this  and  Sonia  that  with  him  now. 
He  can  talk  of  nothing  else."  And  her  eyes 
searched  me  as  she  spoke. 

I  felt  myself  flushing ;  but  if  I  could  not  control 
my  blood,  I  could  my  tongue,  and  I  did  not  give 
her  the  satisfaction  of  asking  a  single  question 
about  Sonia.  I  would  not  bring  her  name  again 
on  those  lips.  I  was  put  to  it  to  turn  the  conver- 
sation, but  found  the  easiest  way  was  to  talk  to 
Miss  Helfmann  about  herself;  and  so  I  began 
with  awkward  directness  to  praise  her  hat  and 
dress,  knowing,  with  my  new-born  insight  into 
women — insight  that  was  half  contempt — that  she 
would  take  a  compliment  to  her  hat  as  if  it  were 
paid  to  herself.  She  was  delighted,  and  kept 
asking  for  more  sweets,  like  a  greedy  child.  I 
gave  them  to  her  till  I  thought  her  appetite  for 
flattery  should  be  satisfied,  and  then  got  up  and 
regretted  that  I'd  have  to  go  away.  She  tried  in 
vain  to  keep  me,  and  when  I  persisted  that  I  had 
an  appointment,  she  betrayed  herself: 

"  By  the  way,  I  forgot,"  she  said,  "  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  that  Michailoff^  is  always  to  be  found 

now,  at  the  afternoon  meetings,  in  a  house  in 

Street.  His  new  mistress  goes  there,  too,  I  be- 
lieve ;  she  is  thinner  than  ever,  and  dresses  down  to 
Michailoff''s  taste." 

I  put  on  an  aff'ectation  of  interest  as  if  I  were 
trying  to  seem  interested  and  was  not,  and  went 
away  with  the  sound  of  her  malicious  laughter  in 
my  ears.  She  had  evidently  given  the  address  in 
order  that  I  might  go  to  one  of  the  meetings — 
probably  with  the  hope  that  I  might  turn  out  to 


Frank  Harris 

be  a  closer  friend  of  Sonia's  than  MichailofF  would 
like. 

I  found  myself  saying,  "  She  would  stop  at 
nothing,  that  woman,  nothing ! "  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  warn  Sonia.  But  then  her  last  letter 
came  into  my  mind,  and  in  the  light  of  what  the 
cursed  Jewess  had  said  I  began  to  think  she  no 
longer  cared  for  me.  Of  course,  the  Jewess's  story 
was  all  lies;  Sonia  was  not  MichailofF's  mistress; 
but  it  was  strange  that  she  should  meet  him,  after 
speaking  of  him  as  base  and  a  liar.  She  went  on 
meeting  him,  too;  I  was  sure  the  Jewess  had  told 
me  the  truth  in  this  particular ;  for,  by  giving  me 
the  time  and  the  place  of  the  meeting,  she  had 
given  me  the  power  of  verifying  her  story.  The 
poison  got  into  my  blood  and  worked  there — 
Sonia  and  Michailoff  together  every  afternoon; 
Sonia,  who  would  not  meet  me,  who  would  not 
take  the  trouble  to  write  me  more  than  two  or  three 
lines.  Strange,  too,  how  she  knew  that  private 
room  in  the  Vienna  restaurant.  Was  I  doing  her 
wrong  by  the  suspicion?  Perhaps.  Perhaps  not, 
too.  What  did  I  know  about  her,  after  all?  One 
thing  was  certain;  she  was  with  MichailofF  every 
afternoon.  I  did  not  write  to  warn  her.  I  put  it 
off. 

Those  meetings  of  mine  with  the  Jewess  must 
have  taken  place  in  October,  for  it  was  December 
and  the  terrible  northern  winter  had  laid  icy  hands 
on  the  city  before  anything  else  happened  to  me  of 
note.  By  this  time  I  had  got  to  understand  Rus- 
sian and  to  speak  it  a  little,  and  I  used  to  move 
about  with  much  greater  freedom  than  heretofore. 


Soma 

One  afternoon  I  had  been  in  the  poorer  quarters 
and  was  hurrying  back  to  the  hotel,  for  it  had 
begun  to  snow,  when  I  saw  a  figure  moving  before 
me  that  I  could  not  mistake  even  in  the  gloom. 
It  set  all  my  pulses  throbbing ;  it  was  Sonia,  I  felt 
sure.  I  vralked  a  little  more  rapidly  and  drew  up 
to  v.ithin  fifteen  or  twenty  yards  of  her  and  was 
certain ;  no  one  else  moved  like  that.  At  the  sight 
my  anger  and  suspicion  melted  away.  For  some 
reason  or  other  I  was  conscious  that  the  story  told 
of  her,  and  my  suspicions  of  her  were  alike  un- 
worthy and  false.  I  was  surprised  to  find  how 
glad  I  was  to  see  her,  how  much  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  her,  to  meet  her  once  again,  to  take  measure  of 
the  distance  she  and  I  had  travelled  since  the  sum- 
mer; and  I  quickened  my  pace.  Suddenly  I 
thought,  "  if  I  speak  to  her  in  the  street,  she  may 
choke  me  off,"  and  then  the  thought  of  the  "  meet- 
ing "  came  to  me  and  at  once  it  seemed  the  better 
plan  to  follow  her  to  the  "  meeting,"  for  then  I 
should  see  her  for  perhaps  half  an  hour  and  cer- 
tainly have  a  talk  with  her  at  the  end. 

We  carry,  I  notice,  the  mental  atmosphere  of 
our  home  with  us  wherever  we  go.  A  "  meeting  " 
the  Jewess  had  said,  and  the  impression  left  on  my 
mind  was  that  of  a  pohtical  meeting  such  as  might 
take  place  among  Radicals  in  England.  If  I  had 
exercised  my  thought  upon  the  matter  conscious!}^ 
I  should  have  known  that  this  was  not  the  case; 
but  I  did  not  like  to  think  about  it,  and  so  the 
word  took  its  meaning  from  the  associations  of  my 
past. 

Sonia  walked  on  rapidly  without  looking  behind 
240 


Frank  Harris 

her,  and  It  was  with  a  shock  that  I  found  myself 
passing  by  the  side  of  the  Fortress  Peter  and 
Paul  and  then  turning  into  a  narrow  street  behind 
it.  Evidently  the  Jewess  had  given  me  the  right 
address.  In  a  minute  or  two  more  Sonia  entered 
a  house  with  just  a  nod  to  the  police  watchman  at 
the  door.  I  followed  within  half-a-dozen  yards  of 
her.  The  man  started  up  as  if  to  stop  me;  but  I 
had  quickened  my  pace  to  overtake  Sonia,  and  I 
suppose  the  intention  to  speak  to  her  was  already 
in  my  face,  for  he  let  me  pass  without  a  word. 
On  the  second  landing  I  was  at  her  heels.  Her 
name  was  almost  on  my  lips  when  she  opened  a  door 
and  went  into  a  room;  before  she  could  close  the 
door  I  had  passed  in  after  her,  saying  "  Sonia." 
She  turned  and  saw  me,  but  before  she  spoke, 
before  she  turned,  I  had  time  to  realise  that  the 
meeting  was  not  such  a  meeting  as  I  had  uncon- 
sciously expected.  The  room  was  a  large  one, 
almost  destitute  of  furniture;  there  was  no  ikon 
in  it,  I  noticed,  and  the  stove  had  evidently  only 
been  lit  a  short  time;  for  they  still  kept  the  door 
of  it  open  to  get  a  draught  and  some  of  the  smoke 
had  blown  through  the  room  and  made  it  look  par- 
ticularly comfortless.  But  what  surprised  me  was 
that  the  room  had  fifteen  or  twenty  men  in  it  and 
no  women  at  all,  and  it  was  evident  at  first  glance 
that  these  men  were  of  a  better  class  than  their 
clothes  would  lead  one  to  believe.  Some  were 
dressed  like  common  workmen,  others  like  artisans, 
others  again  like  poor  clerks,  but  one  look  at  their 
faces  showed  that  many  of  them  were  masquerad- 
ing. 

241 


Sonia 

As  Sonia  entered  the  room,  a  man  detached  him- 
self from  the  group  and  came  towards  her.  I  put 
him  down  at  once  in  my  mind  as  MichailofF — a  man 
about  thirty-five,  of  medium  height,  with  small 
golden-brown  moustache.  He  was  very  good- 
looking — distinguished-looking  even — in  spite  of 
his  clothes. 

As  Sonia  turned  to  me,  she  cried  in  wonder, 
"You  here!  Did  you  follow  me.?"  The  em- 
phasis she  laid  on  the  word  "  follow  "  made  me 
flush  hotly. 

"  I  did,"  I  replied.  The  astonishment  visible  in 
the  men's  faces,  and  the  angry  surprise  of  Mich- 
ailofF prevented  me  showing  the  embarrassment  I 
felt  and  gave  me  self-control.  "  I  did,"  I  re- 
peated ;  "  but  your  friends,"  and  I  pointed  to  the 
circle,  "  do  not  seem  pleased  to  see  me."  I  would 
let  them  understand,  at  any  rate,  that  I  was  not 
desirous  of  conciliating  them. 

"  This  is  no  place  for  you,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
"  You  should  not  have  come  here.  You  must  go 
away  at  once." 

"  Not  at  once,  surely,"  said  MichailofF,  coming 
forward  and  speaking  in  Russian.  "  We  must 
know  who  the  gentleman  is  and  how  he  found  his 
way  here." 

Sonia  answered  him  in  Russian  shortly : 

"  I  will  be  responsible  for  him ;  "  and  then  turn- 
ing to  me  she  said  in  French : 

"  But  now  you  must  go  at  once." 

"  I  understood  what  your  friend  said,"  I  re- 
marked quietly,  "  and  also  what  you  answered ;  but 
I  do  not  see  why  you  should  make  yourself  respon- 
242 


Frank  Harris 

sible  for  me.  I  saw  you  walking  before  me,  I  fol- 
lowed you  at  a  short  distance,  surely  there  is  no 
crime  in  that."  I  spoke  in  Russian  so  that  they 
might  all  understand.  I  wanted  to  defy  them 
all — all  these  men  who  met  Sonia  every  day  and 
could  be  with  her  hour  after  hour  when  she  would 
not  give  me  five  minutes.  I  suppose  she  felt  the 
antagonism  between  me  and  the  others,  for  she 
simply  said  to  them: 

"  I  will  be  back  immediately,"  then  took  me  by 
the  arm,  saying,  "  Come  with  me,"  and  drew  me 
outside  the  door. 

We  were  alone  together,  and  the  outside  world 
fell  away  from  me.  Later  I  knew  that  as  soon 
as  the  door  closed  upon  us  there  arose  inside  the 
room  a  hubbub  of  indistinguishable  voices;  but 
at  the  moment  I  was  unconscious  of  this;  Sonia 
was  with  me  and  that  was  enough.  I  had  no 
time  to  think  of  what  I  should  say,  so  what  I 
did  say  came  from  my  unconscious  self,  from  the 
heart. 

"  I  want  to  see  you,  Sonia,"  I  cried,  "  and  your 
letter  was  so  cold." 

Her  eyes  did  not  yield  to  me.  She  remarked 
bitterly : 

"  I  suppose  your  new  friend.  Miss  Helfmann, 
told  you  where  you  would  find  me  ?  " 

Instead  of  answering  the  accusation  and  con- 
firming her  suspicion,  I  simply  thought  of  clear- 
ing myself: 

"She  is  no   friend  of  mine,"   I  replied  hotly. 
"  A  vulgar  Jewess.     Since  I  saw  her  the  second 
time,  I  have  never  been  again  to  the  restaurant  I 
S43 


oonia 

met  her  In.  You  cannot  have  thought  that  I  would 
care  to  meet  such  a  creature." 

I  spoke  hotly,  but  it  was  warm  at  my  heart  that 
Sonia  did  care  about  my  intercourse  with  the 
Jewess.  At  once  she  melted  to  me,  and  with  the 
old  gesture  I  loved  so  much,  she  stretched  out  both 
hands  to  me,  and  as  I  took  them  and  kissed  them 
again  and  again,  she  said: 

"  I  believe  you ;  you  speak  the  truth  always. 
How  good  it  is  to  be  able  to  trust.  But  now  you 
must  really  go.     You  are  in  danger  here." 

"  Danger,"  I  questioned,  "  from  your  friends  ?  " 

She  flushed  to  the  temples,  and  I  could  have 
kissed  her  for  it. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  bravely,  "  but  don't  ask  me 
why  or  wherefore.  Promise  me  that  you  will  never 
speak  of  this  place  again,  or  of  our  meeting  here. 
Not  to  anyone — and  I  will  meet  you  again.  I  al- 
ways meant  to  give  you  a  meeting,"  and  her  eyes 
rested  on  mine. 

"  If  that's  a  promise,  Sonia,"  I  said,  "  I  can  go 
on  working  cheerfully  and  wait  your  time." 

"  It  is  a  promise,  "  she  said  simply.  But  I  could 
not  part  from  her  like  that ;  as  she  turned  to  go  I 
threw  my  arms  around  her,  and  drew  her  to  me, 
and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  on  the  hair, 
and  said  again  and  again: 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  my  heart's 
delight!" 

A  moment  later  she  had  wound  herself  out  of 

my  arms,  and  with  the  words,  "  Remember  your 

promise,"  had  disappeared  into  the  room.     The 

noise  ceased  as  she  entered,  and  as  the  door  closed 

244 


Frank  Harris 

everything  was  still  and  solitude  came  about  me; 
but  my  heart  was  glad  as  I  went  down  the  stairs, 
and  out  into  the  night.  It  was  dark  now  and 
snowing  heavily ;  but  what  did  I  care  for  the  dark- 
ness and  cold;  I  was  in  Paradise  warmed  and 
lighted  and  gladdened  with  hope. 

For  some  time  after  this  meeting  I  was  content 
and  happy ;  Sonia's  warmth  to  me  and  her  promise 
to  see  me  again,  brightened  life  for  me ;  but  as  the 
days  grew  to  weeks,  and  the  weeks  to  months,  I  be- 
came despondent.  I  never  fell  into  the  utter  mis- 
ery that  possessed  me  before;  I  had  one  consola- 
tion now  that  I  had  previously  lacked — I  wrote  to 
her  regularly.  True,  she  did  not  answer  me;  but 
I  knew  that  my  letters  would  be  a  tie  between  us 
and  so  I  kept  them  up.  As  the  weeks  grew  into 
months,  however,  my  letters,  I  am  afraid,  became 
rarer. 

I  noticed  now  that  there  were  all  sorts  of  ru- 
mours of  Nihilist  conspiracies  flying  about,  but 
they  had  little  or  no  effect  on  the  gaieties  of  the 
capital,  and  I  paid  little  heed  to  them.  I  read  a 
good  deal  in  the  winter  evenings,  and  went  a  good 
deal  to  the  theatre.  I  was  amused  by  the  love  of 
dancing  shown  by  this  northern  people;  the  bal- 
lets in  the  theatre  often  lasted  the  whole  evening, 
and  there  were  sometimes  as  many  as  three  or  four 
hundred  dancers  together  on  the  stage.  Russia 
is  the  only  country  in  Europe  in  which  dancing  is 
still  regarded  as  one  of  the  fine  arts.  But  after  all 
the  reading  of  the  modern  Russian  writers,  Tolstoi, 
Dostoievsky,  and  TurgeniefF,  was  my  chief  occu- 
pation and  pleasure. 

245 


Cionia 

One  evening,  I  remember,  I  had  got  hold  of  Tol- 
stoi's "  Cossacks,"  or  rather  the  story  had  got 
hold  of  me.  The  wish  to  finish  it  kept  me  up  late, 
and  I  had  only  closed  the  book  a  few  moments 
when  a  knock  came  at  my  door.  I  called  out,  and 
to  my  astonishment  the  night  porter  came  in, 
saying: 

"  There's  a  lady  for  3^ou,  sir." 

"  A  lady,"  I  repeated,  utterly  bewildered.  "  I 
don't  know  any  lady.  You  must  be  making  a  mis- 
take." 

"  Oh,  no,  he's  not,"  said  a  voice  I  knew  well,  and 
Sonia  passed  him  and  came  into  the  room.  There 
she  stood  in  a  great  white  fur  wrap  that  hid  every- 
thing except  her  face.  I  could  not  realise  it;  it 
was  too  sudden;  I  was  hardly  able  to  believe  my 
eyes. 

She  put  the  hood  from  off  her  head,  and  taking 
the  great  fur  in  both  hands  threw  it  backwards 
from  her  on  a  chair:  she  was  in  ball  dress. 

"Have  you  no  welcome  for  me?"  she  asked, 
holding  out  both  her  hands.  The  old  familiar  ges- 
ture brought  me  to  myself  and  gave  me  words. 

"  Welcome !  "  I  said,  and  took  her  cold  hands  in 
mine  and  pressed  them  against  my  heart,  "  Wel- 
come !  "  She  smiled  as  if  pleased  with  my  emotion 
and  I  went  on,  "  I  never  knew  before,  Sonia,  why 
jewellers  make  their  boxes  so  uncouth  and  shape- 
less outside ;  it  is  to  show  off  the  exquisite  beauty 
of  the  jewel  within;  and  so  with  you,  3'^ou  witch! 
that  uncouth  great  wrap  sets  off  your  loveli- 
ness ! " 

And  indeed  at  the  moment  I  was  overpowered 
246 


Frank  Harris 

with  the  sense  of  her  physical  seduction.  The 
charm  of  it  came  over  me  as  a  perfume  sometimes 
comes,  with  such  excess  of  sweetness  that  it  makes 
one  giddy.  I  could  feel  my  mouth  parching  as  I 
looked  at  her. 

Suddenly  a  thought  occurred  to  me — a  poison- 
ous thought. 

"  But  this  is  not  the  meeting  you  promised  me, 
is  it  ?  "  I  asked,  and  I  held  her  from  me  in  sudden 
dread. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  replied,  "  the  only  one  I  could 
give  you  without  hurting  you." 

"  Hurting  me ! "  I  repeated  bitterly,  all  the  dis- 
appointment of  my  long  solitude  welling  up  in  me. 
"You  think  a  great  deal  of  my  suffering,  don't 
you?  when  a  letter  from  you — three  careless  lines 
— would  have  made  me  so  happy  that  angels  would 
have  envied  me,  and  yet  you  kept  silent  and  sent 
me  not  a  word — seventeen  weeks  and  not  one  little 
word!" 

"  Also  for  fear  of  hurting  you,"  and  the  great 
eyes  forced  me  to  believe  her  though  I  didn't  see 
how  it  could  be  true.  "  But  I  have  come  now  and 
I  want  to  tell  you  how  good  your  letters  were  to 
me,  how  sweet  they  were,  the  only  sweet  things  in 
my  life  since  I  last  saw  you." 

But  the  fear  of  her  going  away  was  upon  me 
and  prevented  me  giving  myself  up  to  the  happi- 
ness. 

"  But  now,"  I  said,  "  you  will  have  to  go.    Your 
carriage  is  waiting,  of  course;  it  would  compro- 
mise you  if  you  stayed  more  than  a  few  moments 
in  a  hotel  at  this  time  of  night." 
247 


oonia 

She  drew  her  hands  from  me  and  walked  to  the 
fire  before  she  spoke. 

"  I  am  cold,"  she  began  in  a  thin  toneless  voice, 
"  and  you  make  it  colder  with  your  little  rags  of 
convention.  Sometimes  I  think  of  you  as  going 
about  in  your  baby-clothes.  Can  you  never  get 
rid  of  them  altogether?"  and  she  turned  to  me 
with  the  old  imperious  accent  in  her  voice.  "  What 
do  you  think  I  care  about  compromising  myself?  " 
and  she  laughed.  "  If  you  only  knew  how  com- 
promised I  am  already,  you  would  see  that  this 
visit  if  it  ever  gets  out,  instead  of  blackening  me, 
will  shine  white  against  my  robe  of  darkness  and 
death." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked  in  fear,  taking 
her  hands ;  for  she  was  too  sincere  to  be  theatrical. 

"  Mean,"  she  repeated  in  the  same  strained  tone. 
"  I  mean  that  I  have  come  to  see  you,  my  lover — 
so  you  sign  yourself,  don't  you? — to  see  you  for 
perhaps  the  last  time — alone  at  midnight — and 
3'ou  meet  me  with  coldness  and  tell  me  I  must  not 
compromise  myself." 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  I  an- 
swered; but  I  interpreted  what  she  said  as  a 
challenge  and  my  fevered  blood  rushed  over  will 
and  sense.  I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  drew  her 
to  me  and  covered  her  face  and  neck  with  kisses. 
A  moment  afterwards  she  was  holding  me  from  her 
breathless : 

"  Be  reasonable,  be  reasonable,"  she  said  with  a 
smile,  and  sat  down  in  the  low  chair. 

"  Reasonable,"  I  said,  throwing  myself  on  my 
knees  beside  her  and  putting  my  arms  round  her 
248 


Frank  Harris 

waist.  "  How  do  you  think  I  can  be  reasonable 
when  you  tell  me  that  you  have  come  to  your 
lover  for  perhaps  the  last  time  and  find  him  cold. 
That  is  not  true,  Sonia,  that  is  not  true.  My 
kisses  are  still  on  your  neck.  Say  that  it  is  not 
true. 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  went  on,  "  that  I  have  never 
seen  you  before  in  a  low  dress?  How  exquisite 
you  are !  Like  some  strange  lily  with  the  white 
leaves  turned  back,"  and  I  put  my  lips  again 
on  the  smooth  veined  flesh.  A  moment,  and  her 
cool  skin  fired  my  blood,  and  my  heart  shook  me 
with  its  beating:  "Cold!"  I  repeated.  "Am  I 
cold.?" 

She  lifted  my  head  from  her  neck,  saying,  "  No, 
love,"  beseechingly. 

"  But  how  can  you  call  me  '  love,'  "  I  said,  "  and 
speak  of  the  '  last  time ' .?  "  and  again  I  drew  her 
to  me. 

" '  Perhaps  the  last  time,' "  she  corrected 
me,  flushing  and  still  holding  my  head  from 
her. 

"  That's  the  same  thing,"  I  said  roughly,  with 
a  sort  of  physical  exasperation  at  her  restraint. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  If  you  don't  explain  it  or 
take  it  back,  I  will  keep  you  here  always  and  it  will 
indeed  be  the  last  time  that  you  will  plague  me 
with  absence,"  and  I  began  to  caress  the  restrain- 
ing arms  with  my  lips. 

"  Ah,"  she  cried,  "  be  reasonable,  George,  be 
reasonable.  If  you  only  knew,  the  fear  that  you 
might  think  worse  of  me  for  coming  made  it  diffi- 
cult to  come." 

U9 


Cionia 

"  How  could  you  ?  "  I  interrupted ;  but  she  shook 
her  head  sadly. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  could,"  she  replied.  "  You  showed 
me  that  in  Vienna  when  I  took  you  to  that  private 
room;  I  saw  it  in  your  face,  and  it  hurt  me,  hurt 
me.     It  is  always  hurting  me." 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  cried,  overcome  with  shame  and 
remorse,  "  forgive  me,  Sonia !  Really  I  put  it  out 
of  my  mind ;  it  had  no  effect  on  me ;  I  never  har- 
boured it.  One  only  learns  such  a  nature  as  yours 
little  by  little ;  forgive  me,  sweet !  " 

Even  as  I  spoke  I  struggled  for  self-possession 
and  the  power  to  think,  and  with  this  same  pur- 
pose I  added: 

"  But  won't  your  carriage  be  waiting?  Hadn't 
I  better  send  it  home.''  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  came  in  a  droshky.  I  will 
go  back  in  it  when  you  are  tired  of  me." 

"  Tired  of  you,"  I  repeated,  "  that  will  never  be. 
But  why  do  you  provoke  me,"  I  went  on  wildly, 
"  when  I  am  half  mad  and  unable  to  think  ?  Your 
beaut}^  intoxicates  me.  Don't  you  know  that  I 
have  longed  for  3^ou  and  dreamed  of  you  for 
months.?    Why  do  you  talk  of  my  being  '  tired  '.?  " 

"Why,"  she  repeated,  "why?  That's  hard  to 
tell  unless  you  knew  all  that  I  know.  But  do  you 
think  it  has  cost  me  nothing  to  keep  away  from 
you  all  these  months?  All  the  time  I  have  lived 
for  others  and  crushed  my  own  heart.  Is  that 
nothing?  Now  I  come  and  let  my  heart  speak 
for  the  moment ;  is  that  wonderful?  "  She  clasped 
her  hands  and  went  on  as  if  she  had  caught  the 
clue. 

S50 


Frank  Harris 

"  Is  it  wonderful,"  she  repeated,  starting  up, 
"  that  one  finds  it  hard  to  die  before  one  has  lived? 
wonderful  that  one  who  gives  everything  should 
want  to  keep  one  moment  for  the  man  she  loves? 
wonderful  that  one  cannot  be  resolute  all  through 
but  must  be  a  woman  at  the  last  ?  " 

"  At  the  last,"  I  said,  as  if  waking  suddenly  to 
something  strange  and  strained  in  her.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  she  replied,  still  in  the  same 
tone  of  exaltation.  "  I  am  mad  to-night — or  sane, 
for  once — I  don't  know  which  or  care.  One  thing's 
sure;  my  life  is  mine  now  to  do  as  I  please  with. 
At  last  it  is  mine — or  yours  if  you  will." 

Her  voice  played  on  my  nerves  like  music. 

"  Do  you  remember  telling  me  once,"  she  went 
on,  "  that  to  rouse  your  passion  and  not  satisfy  it, 
was  unfair,  for  it  drew  out  the  worst  in  you?  I 
told  you  then  that  I  would  give  you  anything — 
everything,  if  I  were  free. 

"  Now  I  am  free — free  as  fire  or  air — and  I 
come  to  you." 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  me,  and  in  my  poor 
brain  came  the  thought,  the  one  thought,  that  the 
bond  of  the  flesh  would  indeed  be  a  bond  between 
us  that  she  could  never  break,  that  so  she  would 
always  return  to  me  and  at  last  be  mine.  And  I 
took  her  slowly  in  my  arms  and  put  my  lips  to 
hers.  .  .  . 

An  hour  afterwards  I  was  seated  in  the  chair 

and  she  was  in  my  arms,  and  I  noticed  that  her 

face  was  pale  and  thin,  and  the  violet  rings  about 

her  eyes  made  my  heart  weep.     I  tried  to  comfort 

251 


Sonia 

her  by  telling  her  how  I  would  live  in  Petersburg 
always  and  make  myself  a  Russian  and  do  what- 
ever pleased  her,  and  all  these  sentences  I  said  in 
Russian  carefully  to  her ;  but  she  put  her  hand  on 
my  mouth  with  infinite  tenderness: 

"  No  plans,  dear,  no  plans,  and  no  regrets.  The 
past  does  not  belong  to  us  any  more,  and  the  fu- 
ture may  never  be  ours.  It  is  this  moment  that 
we  own,  and  it  consoles  me  for  everything  to  feet 
your  arms  about  me  and  to  know  that  you  are 
happy.     You  are,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  More  than  happy,"  I  said,  "  if  to-day  is  the 
beginning  of  a  new  life  for  us,  if  you  will  be  my 
wife  and  give  3"ourself  to  me  for  ever." 

"  '  For  ever,'  "  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  drenched 
with  emotion,  "  our  '  for  ever  '  is  but  a  moment, 
and  yet  it  repays  me  for  all  I  have  suffered  and 
for  all  I  may  suffer  still,"  and  she  put  her  hand 
through  my  hair  in  a  caress. 

What  could  I  say?  Her  words  brought  tears 
of  joy  to  my  eyes,  and  yet  made  me  feel  di- 
vinely humble.  I  lifted  her  from  me  and  slipped 
down  beside  her  on  my  knees  with  my  arms 
still  about  her — that  was  my  place  I  felt — and 
then  I  drew  down  her  eyes  and  kissed  them  again 
and  again,  with  my  heaii:  now,  and  not  my  lips 
alone. 

And  so  we  sat  for  a  long  time,  speaking,  I  think, 
but  little,  and  yet  getting  to  know  each  other  more 
and  more  intimately  with  the  mysterious  divination 
of  love. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  sound  in  the  hotel:  the 
night  was  gone ;  some  one  on  my  floor  was  being 
^52 


Frank    Harris 

called  for  an  early  train,  and  as  soon  as  she  heard 
the  noise  Sonia  started  to  her  feet: 

"  I  must  go !  " 

"  Go  !  "  I  said,  "  but  let  me  go  with  you ;  I  must' 
see  you  home." 

"  No,  no !  "  she  cried,  "  you  must  not ; "  but  I 
persisted. 

"Why  not,  Sonia?" 

She  turned  to  me  with  her  whole  face  shaken 
and  her  eyes  brimming  over.  The  sadness  in  her 
face  was  despairing. 

"  You  must  not  question  me,  dear  one ;  I  have 
no  explanations  to  give.  I  only  want  you  to  know 
one  thing,  to  put  it  in  your  soul,  as  it  is  in  mine — 
that  I  owe  you  all  the  sweetness  of  my  life." 

She  put  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  in  her 
eyes  .  .  .  there  was  the  love  that  is  stronger  than 
death.  I  took  her  down  to  the  door  of  the  hotel. 
As  soon  as  the  door  opened  on  the  dull  gray  morn- 
ing a  droshky  that  had  evidently  been  on  the  look 
out,  whirled  up  and  in  a  moment  she  had  gone 
and  I  was  alone. 

The  next  two  or  three  days  passed  in  a  dream 
with  me.  I  wrote  to  Sonia  in  the  morning  saying 
that  I  would  have  to  see  her  again  at  once,  that  I 
could  not  live  without  her,  and  that  I  was  deter- 
mined to  share  her  fate,  whatever  it  might  be.  I 
added  that  if  I  did  not  hear  from  her,  I  should 
seek  her  till  I  found  her.  The  afternoon  of  the 
same  day  brought  me  a  note.  The  porter  told  me 
that  an  isvostchik  had  left  it  and  gone  away  at 
once.  It  was  from  Sonia  and  just  like  her;  here 
it  is: 

S53 


Sonia 

"Dear  Heart, 

"  You  must  not  see  me.     I  do  not  wish  it. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  soon. 

Yours  till  death, 

"  Sonia." 

Two  or  three  days  later  I  came  down  to  lunch 
rather  late.  I  had  been  conscious  for  a  little  while 
that  there  was  an  unusual  hurrying  and  scurrying 
about  in  the  hotel,  but  I  was  so  wrapped  up  in  my 
own  feelings  and  hopes  that  I  paid  little  attention 
to  it  all.  When  I  got  down  to  the  restaurant,  I 
found  everything  in  confusion.  Waiters  came  into 
the  room  and  went  out  again  quickly,  and  though, 
strange  to  say,  there  was  no  one  but  myself  to 
serve,  they  did  not  attend  to  me.  Three  several 
times  I  gave  my  order  and  the  waiter  took  it,  went 
awa}^  and  never  came  back.  At  last  I  got  up, 
caught  a  half-scared  waiter  by  the  ear,  and  said 
to  him  in  Russian : 

"What's  the  matter .^^  Have  you  all  lost  your 
wits.?" 

"  No,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  but  the  Tsar  is  dead, 
they  say." 

"  What,  man  ? "  I  cried,  "  what  do  you 
mean.'' " 

It  was  true.  The  head-waiter  came  in,  and  in  a 
moment  told  me  the  whole  tragedy — the  Tsar  had 
been  out  driving;  on  his  way  back  to  the  Winter 
Palace  bombs  had  been  thrown  which  had  blown 
his  horses  and  himself  to  pieces. 

"  And  the  throwers  ?  "  I  asked. 

His  eyebrows  went  up.  "  The  police  have  one," 
254 


Frank  Harris 

he  said,  "  and  they  are  searching.     They  say  it  is 
the  NihiHsts.  .  .   ." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  a  note  was  brought  to 
me  from  Green,  asking  me  to  come  to  the  Embassy 
at  once,  I  went,  and  found  him  in  a  state  of  con- 
sternation ;  and  yet  he  could  not  help  saying  what 
everyone  was  saying,  "  the  greatest  crime  of  the 
century."  Green  was  sure  to  make  his  way  in 
diplomacy — his  thoughts  kept  the  common  road: 
everyone  would  be  pleased  with  him. 

"  It  is  terrible,"  I  said,  "  but  what  has  it  all  to 
do  with  me?  " 

"  Much,"  he  replied  quickly.  "  Some  time  ago 
the  police  came  here  to  find  out  about  you,  to  find 
out  if  you  were  favourably  known  to  us.  Of 
course,  we  told  them  that  you  were  all  right;  but 
they  came  back  a  couple  of  days  ago  and  said  " — 
he  began  turning  over  some  papers  till  at  last  he 
found  a  slip  on  which  some  memoranda  were  scrib- 
bled— "  that  you  were  known  to  be  in  communica- 
tion with  Nihilists,  notably  with  a  Jewess,  one 
Helfmann,  and  that  you  should  be  warned."  He 
threw  down  the  paper  and  went  on.  "  The  moment 
I  got  the  news  of  this  tragedy,  I  sent  for  you  to 
tell  you.  I  think  you  had  better  take  this  despatch 
box  and  go  to  Berlin  with  it  at  once  as  one  of  our 
messengers." 

"  Not  I,"  I  replied.  "  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong." 

"  Mere  suspicion  now,"  he  said,  "  would  put  you 

in  prison  for  a  year,  and  we  could  not  help  you. 

Believe  me,  you  must  go.    I  cannot  tell  you  all  my 

reasons,  but  you  must  leave  Petersburg  to-night." 

»5& 


Soma 

His  insistence  was  so  peculiar,  so  menacing,  that 
I  told  him  at  last  I  would  take  his  advice;  and 
I  did. 

But  first  I  wrote  to  Sonia  and  told  her  what  had 
befallen  me  and  gave  her  my  address,  begging  her 
to  write.  I  left  Petersburg  that  evening,  and  I 
left  it  not  a  moment  too  soon.  The  next  day  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  leave  without  a  spe- 
cial permit  countersigned  by  the  chief  of  police ; 
and  he  would  never  have  given  it  to  me. 

That  was  an  exciting  time  in  Berlin,  and,  I  sup- 
pose, all  over  the  civilized  world.  Men  talked  of 
nothing  and  read  of  nothing  but  the  great  trag- 
edy, and  every  detail  that  came  to  hand  only  in- 
creased the  public  interest.  Everyone  felt  that 
this  crime  was  like  no  other  crime;  it  was  not  the 
deed  of  one  or  two  monomaniacs ;  there  were 
dozens  implicated  in  it,  and  in  spite  of  numberless 
spies  and  detectives,  a  whole  government  organized 
for  defence,  nothing  had  been  suspected,  nothing 
had  leaked  out.  Yet  one  day  we  read  that  had 
the  Tsar  returned  to  his  palace  by  another  route, 
the  whole  street  would  have  gone  into  the  air  with 
him — the  whole  of  Garden  Street  had  been  under- 
mined from  side  to  side  and  turned  into  a  huge 
magazine.  A  little  later  we  heard  that  the  assas- 
sins were  all  volunteers — the  picked  and  chosen 
out  of  forty-seven  who  hrd  offered  themselves  for 
the  work ;  and  a  little  later  still  came  the  news  that 
two  days  before  the  assassination,  three  of  the 
murderers  had  actually  rehearsed  the  crime.  They 
had  dared  to  go  through  the  police-crowded  streets 
of  Petersburg  to  a  piece  of  waste  land  on  the  out- 
25Q 


Frank  Harris 

skirts  of  the  town  and  there  throw  one  of  the  five- 
inch  tin  bombs  in  order  to  study  what  its  effect 
would  be.  The  imagination  was  palsied  by  such 
facts. 

The  later  conduct  of  these  conspirators  was  no 
less  extraordinary.  One  hundred  and  fifty  accused 
and  not  a  single  informer !  Not  a  single  person 
who  tried  to  save  his  own  life  at  the  expense  of  his 
fellows!  And  everyone  knew  enough  of  the 
methods  of  Russian  prisons  to  know  that  neither 
punishment  nor  reward  was  spared  to  win  betrayal 
and  make  conviction  sure.  Scenes  to  shake  the 
soul;  on  the  one  side  mind-torture,  planned  and 
perfect;  on  the  other,  silence. 

"  You  met  so-and-so  at  such-and-such  a  place.?  " 
questioned  the  magistrate.  "  We  know  it.  You 
were  dressed  as  a  workman ;  he  was  dressed  as  an 
artisan.  You  see  we  know  everything.  Admit  it 
and  you  shall  go  free." 

A  smile  was  the  answer.  The  most  astonishing 
thing  was  that  these  criminals  would  tell  of  them- 
selves freely;  they  seemed  indeed  to  court  death; 
but  not  a  word  to  hurt  their  fellows. 

And  so  by  these  individual  confessions  little  by 
little  we  came  to  the  heart  of  the  matter  and 
learned  that  it  was  a  woman,  a  mere  girl,  who  had 
been  the  soul  of  the  conspiracy;  the  master-spirit 
w^ho  drew  the  others  to  her  and  inflamed  them  with 
her  own  white  heat  of  purpose;  and  bit  by  bit  we 
were  enabled  to  reconstruct  the  last  scene. 

The  place  was  the  bridge  leading  over  the  Cath- 
erine Canal.  On  the  rise  of  the  bridge  itself  as 
on  a  platform  whence  she  could  see  and  be  seen, 
257 


Sonia 

the  girl  took  her  stand;  below  her  were  her  three 
assistants,  RisakofF,  Elnikoff,  and  another.  The 
girl  was  to  wave  her  pocket  handkerchief,  as  the 
death  signal. 

Suddenly  the  horses  and  the  closed  carriage  sur- 
rounded by  its  escort  of  Cossacks,  appeared  whirl- 
ing towards  the  bridge.  The  handkerchief  flut- 
tered, and  at  once  RisakofF  threw  his  bomb.  It 
smashed  the  hinder  part  of  the  carriage  and  killed 
a  Cossack  and  a  moujik  w^ho  happened  to  be  stand- 
ing near.  The  hind  wheels  being  blown  away,  the 
carriage  fell  and  stopped  the  horses.  A  moment 
after,  the  Tsar  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out 
unhurt.  Seeing  the  Cossack  and  the  moujik  lying 
in  their  blood  on  the  ground,  he  was  overpowered 
by  the  sense  of  his  own  escape  and  cried,  "  Thank 
God." 

At  this  moment,  RisakofF,  who  had  been  seized 
by  some  of  the  bystanders,  was  heard  to  say :  "  It 
is  too  soon  to  thank  God  yet."  The  same  instant 
the  handkerchief  fluttered  again,  and  ElnikofF 
rushed  forward,  lifted  his  hands  high  above  his 
head  and  hurled  his  bomb  down  between  himself 
and  the  Emperor.  He  was  blown  to  pieces;  the 
Tsar's  limbs  were  shattered.  The  awful  sight 
turned  the  third  murderer  to  pity;  he  shoved  his 
bomb  into  his  pocket  and  helped  to  lift  the  dying 
monarch  into  a  sledge.  Oh  wonderful  heart  of 
man  that  includes  in  itself  all  contradictions !  In 
one  moment  this  assassin  became  a  nurse  at  the 
risk  of  his  life.  Meanwhile  the  girl,  seeing  her 
work  was  done,  walked  on  over  the  bridge 
and  disappeared  among  the  crowd — to  give  her- 
25S 


Frank  Harris 

self    up    three    days    afterwards    in    the    Nevski 
Prospekt. 

As  I  read  all  this,  the  blood  ebbed  from  my 
heart  and  left  me  gasping.  The  simplicity  of  the 
signal,  the  deadly  resolution,  filled  me  with  a  fear 
which  I  did  not  dare  to  put  into  words.  I  was 
relieved  when  I  read  later  that  the  girl-chief  was 
supposed  to  be  the  mistress  of  the  peasant  Jelaboff , 
and  that  her  name  was  Lydia  Voinoff. 

But  a  day  or  two  later  still  we  heard  that  she 
was  not  the  only  woman  implicated,  that  there  were 
two  women  among  the  six  who  were  put  on  their 
trial  for  murder  before  the  High  Court  of  the 
Senate,  and  that  the  second  woman  was  a  Jewess, 
one  Hetty  Helfmann.  With  that  name  a  weight 
of  fear  came  on  me,  crushing  me,  and  I  was  afraid 
to  think;  yet  without  conscious  thinking  my  fear 
took  form  and  went  with  me  everywhere. 

I  scarcely  dared  to  go  out.  I  was  waiting  for 
news — "  news,"  that  horrible  word — in  my  room, 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  man  came  in  without 
ceremony  of  any  kind. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  I  asked  in  astonishment. 

He  took  off  his  rough  cap  as  he  answered :  "  You 
don't  remember  me !  " 

It  was  MichailofF. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  conscious  of  hate  and  anger ;  "  I 
remember  you  perfectly."  And  I  did.  I  could 
see  the  bare  room  and  the  wisps  of  smoke  blown 
through  it  and  the  crowd  of  men,  and  Sonia  stand- 
ing with  her  back  to  me — I  remembered  everything, 
even  to  the  dirt  the  men's  boots  had  brought  into 
the  room  and  left  on  the  bare  boards. 
259 


Son 


la 


But  the  man  had  altered.  This  was  not  the 
smiling  face  and  the  little  moustache  with  its  hand- 
some upward  curl.  He  had  shaved  moustache  and 
beard:  the  eyes  were  different  too;  they  were 
without  light  or  steadiness.  What  was  it  that 
made  me  avoid  them?  Was  the  man  mad?  He 
seemed  to  resent  either  my  manner  or  my  scrutiny ; 
but  he  came  forward  without  speaking  and  threw 
himself  heavily  into  a  chair. 

"  I  am  done,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not  eaten  for 
days  nor  slept  for  a  week.  Give  me  food  and 
drink." 

The  remains  of  my  lunch  were  on  the  table.  As 
I  went  to  the  bell  he  stopped  me. 

"  Don't  ring,"  he  said.  "  This  will  do ; "  and 
he  turned  and  began  to  eat,  while  I  poured  out 
wine  for  him. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  took  up  a  cigarette; 
then  leaned  back  in  the  chair  and  began  to  smoke. 

"  Do  you  know?  "  he  began  quietly,  "  I  meant 
to  kill  you,  once.  How  silly  it  all  seems  now,  how 
unreal !  I  have  come  from  Petersburg  to  see  you ; 
to  hear  you  speak ;  to  find  out  what  it  is  that  made 
such  a  woman  love  you !  You  are  tall  and  strong 
and  clean ;  but  that's  all  I  can  see — and  that's  not 
enough." 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  that  ?  "  I  asked 
him. 

"  No,"  he  replied  quietly,  "  no,  I  came  here  as  a 
messenger  to  answer  whatever  you  had  to  ask  and 
to  give  you  a  letter." 

"  Give  it  me,"  I  said,  holding  out  my  hand ;  and 
after  a  moment  of  what  I  took  to  be  hesitation  he 


Frank  Harris 

handed  me  a  letter.     It  was  from  Sonia.     I  opened 
it  and  read  the  first  hne  at  a  glance: 

"  When  you  get  this,  I  shall  be  dead,  my  lover." 

I  stood  with  the  letter  in  my  hand  and  felt  my 
heart  stop. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  My  voice  startled  me, 
it  was  so  small  and  thin. 

"  Mean,"  he  answered,  "  it  means  that  you  were 
loved  by  the  greatest  woman  in  the  world — you! 
It  means  that  she  adored  you — she  whom  we  all 
worshipped  and  now  she  is  dead — Sophia  Perov- 
skaia." 

Then  it  was  true ;  I  was  not  surprised ;  I  seemed 
to  have  known  it  always ;  but  I  could  not  think. 

"Ah,  the  sacred  name !  "  he  went  on,  "  the  sacred 
name !  " 

"  Tell  me  about  her,"  I  interrupted  him.  "  Tell 
me  about  it.    What  did  she  do .?  " 

"  Do,"  he  said,  "  do.  Good  God !  he  did  not 
even  know  her." 

"  What  did  she  do  ?  "  he  cried  after  a  pause. 
"  I  will  tell  you.  She  was  the  soul  of  our  move- 
ment; she  foresaw  everything;  organized  every- 
thing; and  at  the  last,  directed  everything.  Ah, 
she  chose  her  instruments  well." 

My  whole  being  w^oke  to  hate  of  him  and  his 
theatrical  speech. 

"  And  you?  "  I  said.  "  She  chose  you  as  a  mes- 
senger !  "  and  I  laughed. 

He  dropped  into  the  chair  and  put  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

"  No,"  he  said,  after  a  pause ;  "  she  sent  me 
out  of  Petersburg  at  the  critical  time,  persuading 
261 


Sonia 

me  that  my  brain  and  tongue  alone  could  do  some 
work  in  Moscow  that  had  to  be  done,  and  so  I 
escaped  the  police;  but  when  I  came  back,  and  I 
came  back  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  news,  it  was  too 
late  to  do  anything  for  her  or  the  others.  I  found 
she  had  left  a  letter  for  you ;  no  one  seemed  to  know 
you,  so  I  took  it  and  followed  you  here.  I  don't 
know  why  now — with  some  wish,  I  think,  to  hurt 
you.  But  I  have  no  such  wish  now.  I  can  think 
of  nothing  but  her — and  you're  right,  she  despised 
me!" 

"  Tell  me  of  her,"  I  heard  myself  saying. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  end.?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  I  said  in  rage ;  "  how  could  I  have 
heard.?" 

"  That's  true,"  he  said.  "  I  have  come  straight 
through,"  and  he  began  hurriedly,  as  if  he  liked 
to  tell  of  it,  and  his  rhetoric  hardly  ever  left  him. 

"  It  was  awful  and  beautiful  too.  There  were 
crowds  and  crowds  of  people;  the  ten  thousand 
soldiers  were  but  a  thin  wall  to  keep  the  ocean  of 
people  back.  There  was  the  black  scaffold — two 
poles  and  a  crossbar  and  five  rings  with  dangling 
halters.  We  waited  for  hours.  The  snow  and  ice 
on  the  plain  had  melted  under  the  hot  sun,  and 
been  churned  to  mud  by  the  myriad  feet.  One 
shivered  and  burned  in  turns. 

"  Suddenly  we  saw  the  two  tumbrils,  high  upon 
the  first  Risakoff  and  Jelaboff,  and  in  the  next  the 
other  three,  Sonia  in  the  middle — the  one  divine 
thing  in  the  world,  with  her  smiling  pale  face  and 
God-illumined  eyes ! 

"  All  of  them  in  black — black  robes,  black  caps ; 


Frank  Harris 

great  placards  on  their  breasts,  '  Murderers  of  the 
Tsar ! '  The  good  Tsar,"  he  added  bitterly,  "  the 
Tsar  who  cried  '  Thank  God,'  when  he  saw  his 
Cossacks  and  moujiks  lying  dead  and  thought  he 
had  escaped! 

"  When  they  unbound  them  on  the  platform  I 
could  see  her  walk  about  cheering  each  of  them, 
kissing  them,  encouraging  them,  but  no  one  could 
hear  what  she  said  for  the  noise  of  the  drums. 
Yet  her  courage  lifted  the  soul  and  made  the  place 
sacred!  Then  one  after  the  other  they  mounted 
the  stool.  ...  I  see  her  hanging  still!  ...  As  I 
came  away  everyone  was  crying,  the  soldiers  and 
the  people  alike — everyone.  And  now,"  he  added, 
"  I  am  worse  than  dead.  There  is  nothing  for  me 
to  hope  for  in  the  world — nothing." 

He  rose  and  left  the  room,  and  I  let  him  go, 
for  I  wanted  to  be  alone  with  my  love  and  her  last 
words  to  me.     Here  is  her  letter: 

"  When  you  get  this  I  shall  be  dead,  my  lover. 
Dead,  the  word  looks  strange ;  and  yet  all  it  means 
is  simply  rest  and  sleep,  and  I  am  tired,  tired  and 
worse  than  tired. 

"  Ever  since  I  left  you,  I  have  been  in  doubt, 
wondering  always  whether  it  would  not  be  better 
to  leave  the  work  undone  and  just  go  back  and  lie 
in  your  arms  again  and  feel  your  kisses  on  my 
face. 

"  It  was  not  only  the  temptation  of  your  love 
that  tortured  me,  but  fear,  too — an  awful  fear! 
Do  you  remember  once  saying  to  me  that  ideas 
were  better  than  deeds,  that  deeds  had  always  some 
of  the  dirt  of  the  world  on  them?    How  true  that 


oonta 

IS !  and  how  terrible !  Since  I  left  you  I  have  been 
in  the  dirt  and  I  shall  never  be  clean  again ;  though 
my  heart  loathes  it;  but  still  the  thing  had  to  be 
done  and  that  must  be  enough  for  me. 

"  I  could  not  do  anything  else,  dear.  I  was  not 
made  to  do  anything  else ;  I  could  not  have  lived 
a  great  life ;  the  slow  hours  w  ould  have  broken  me. 
I  see  that  now  clearly. 

"  I  want  to  say  one  thing  to  you  before  I  go, 
love;  one  thing  that  is  sure  where  everything  else 
breaks  and  changes. 

"  You  always  compared  society  to  a  pyramid, 
do  you  remember  "^  and  said  that  the  base  of  it  must 
rest  in  the  mud.  It  isn't  true,  dear;  we  w^ill  lift 
the  pyramid  by  putting  our  own  breasts  under  it. 
It  may  crush  us,  but  others  will  follow  the  example 
— that  is  sure ! 

"  You  will  not  increase  the  weight  of  the  pyra- 
mid for  us;  but  lighten  it  and  help  to  lift  it,  my 
lover. 

"  And  now,  dear.  .  .  ." 

But  I  can  copy  no  more;  the  rest  of  the  letter 
belongs  to  me  alone,  for  the  loss  is  mine. 


264» 


=%f> 


■"'^^^'SPI^ 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D  LCi 


APR  2  1 '64 -9 


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